Don't Ever Change
by omgringo
Summary: An accident leaves John and the rest of The Beatles scarred. With the rhythm guitarist's memory and emotions tattered and in ruins, can Paul get him back to his usual self again? Or will The Beatles shatter apart like John's mind? Hurt/comfort. Eventual McLennon. Strong language throughout.
1. Crash Into Me

Paul McCartney wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist, as he put the bass back on the stand, and turned. An orchestra of screaming girls surged through the seats in the concert hall. They're screams shook the whole room it seemed. The bassist looked over to George and John next to him, and when they all took a bow, more screams erupted. Paul gave a smile and put his lips to the microphone; every girl visibly swooned.

"Goodnight, thank you for having us-"

"You should be thankin' us you know!" John gave a shout and a shrill laugh. The audience shrieked with delight at his outburst.

The Beatles gave once last bow and left the stage.

Paul, as he grabbed a towel to dry himself off a little, wondered why John teased the audience like that. Even if the girls liked John's cheeky demeanour and witty remarks, Paul didn't want to risk getting any bad reviews if the rhythm guitarist took it too far; it could ruin their reputation.

The four musicians made their way out of the back, into a rather cold, rather dark alley, where the puddles sparkled from the street lights and their breaths took wings in the form of smoke.

"Where's the car?" Paul heard Ringo ask quietly.

"Must be late," George answered. He struck a match and lit everyone a cigarette while they pondered.

Paul gave sigh. "We'll just have to wait inside till it comes then," and made his way to the back door once again.

"Can't we just wait out 'ere?" John moaned.

"Nah, mate, say if some fans find us; we'll be ripped to shreds!" Said the bassist, as he sucked on the cigarette tiredly.

"Well I don't wanna go back in there," John argued back. He shoved a hand in his coat pocket defiantly.

Paul was far too weary to quarrel now. He shrugged, "Suit yourself," and began to walk back to the door, Ringo and George behind him.

"What's the worst that could happen, McCartney!" He laughed and stepped backwards into the darkness, just as the car came speeding down the alley and hit him.

When he heard the screech of tires and the thud of a body hitting the floor, Paul felt his heart stop. He turned and screamed.

"John!"

It was silent for a moment after that. No one knew what had just happened, no one could comprehend. But only for that one second.

The bassist sprinted over to John's limp form sprawled out on the cold ground like a discarded rag doll.

"Oh my God, Johnny. Fuck! What the fuck!" Paul was deaf to his own cries. Ringo had to pull him back when he smothered the rhythm guitarist, as George rushed for a phone to call an ambulance. The driver stood at the door of the car in shock.

"It's your fault, you fucking bastard! You fucking cunt! You hit him!" Paul screamed.

He threw the drummer off him angrily and rolled John onto his back. Not a scratch on him, but he still wouldn't wake up.

"Come on, Johnny, don't fucking die on me. Come on, Lennon!"

Paul took John's face in his hands. He put an ear to the auburn-haired man's chest and listened for a heart beat.

Thump-Thump-Thump.

It was faint, but it was there.

"Oh my God," Paul was weeping now. His body, racked with shakes and sobs, jittered erratically. He felt two pairs of hands restrain him and pull him back. He throttled wild like an animal.

"No! John!"

"Let us get him into the ambulance, son. He's in good hands now." A deep voice said.

Paul watched them lift John into the ambulance quickly.

"It's all my fault," he sobbed, "it's all my fault."

**(Next chapter already written and ready to post. Thank you for reading and please leave a review telling me what you thought! Sorry if this first chapter was brief- I thought it would be a good place to end it. Future updates will be longer!)**


	2. Wake Up

(Two days later)

The gentle pat of rain tapping against the window lulled Paul into a state of calm; a state he hadn't had the luck of being in for a while. He used a gentle hand to nestle John's fingers. It was something he would never do normally, after all he didn't want to come across as looking queer and get himself arrested or thrown in a ward here himself, but at this moment in time it felt like the right thing to do. John's milky-white chest rose and fell deeply under the light sheets, his eyes sealed shut and his body decorated with tubes and wires.

Paul would give anything to see those dark eyes open again.

"Wake up will you, John. Please. You've had a long enough lie in." He whispered.

The bassist bowed his head. He was tired.

"Any change?" Said George, sitting back down on a chair across from Paul. Ringo stood at the end of the bed and looked at John sadly.

"No," Paul sighed, "the doctors don't know when he'll wake up either."

There were no words any of them could share. It was a choking atmosphere of earnest, and it was the drummer's thick voice, thick and heavy with emotion, that spoke first.

"Always like John, eh, getting 'imself into trouble,"

Paul looked at Ringo and forced a smile, more of a grimace than a smile really, stood and patted him on the shoulder in a brotherly way then made his way to the door.

"I'm gonna get a coffee," he mumbled.

The white halls squeaked as he walked out of the door and down the corridor and to the cafeteria, passing people in their rooms; crying women, screaming babies, but almost no one recognised him. Or maybe they were too distraught to notice. Or maybe they just didn't care. Paul thought so.

He sat down at a table with his scalding drink, cupping his hands around the steaming mug. Wincing as he swallowed some down, he didn't notice a man sit across him.

"It's true then."

Paul looked at the blonde man and realised that what he said wasn't a question- it was a statement.

"'Scuse me?"

"The news about John Lennon; it's true he got knocked over, that he's here. I heard he's dying, no chance he'll live to play again."

The bassist felt anger rise in his stomach. His fingers curled tighter around the cup of coffee.

"What'll 'appen, then? You know, if 'e kicks the bucket- you gonna break up? I reckon he's easily replaceable, that Lennon. Shabby guitar player, I say-"

"How did you find out?"

"What?"

His voice was dangerously low. "How did you find out?"

"It's all over the papers, mate-"

Paul stood, suddenly, shoved his chair back and pointed a finger at the man. The cafeteria grew quiet at the outburst.

"Right well you can tell the papers I said this: John Lennon is fine and well, and we don't fucking appreciate tabloids spreadin' rumours about us that ain't bloody true!"

He looked around the room and felt the eyes burn holes through his skin. After another glance at the silent blonde man, he picked up a discarded newspaper quickly from the another table and hurried out of the hall, back down the sterilised corridors and into John's room. His face was flushed red in a mixture of embarrassment and rage.

"You're back quick," George said.

"What 'appened?" Asked Ringo, as he stroked John's still fingers gently.

Paul paced. "It's all over the fuckin' papers," he seethed. Scrubbing a hand down his face, he passed George the paper.

"What is?" The drummer inquired. George's dark eyes widened, then narrowed. He passed the newspaper over to Ringo, looking back up at Paul.

"How did it get out?" The guitarist asked.

"Someone else must've seen us. Maybe the driver spilled just to get a few quid. Now everyone's sayin' he's on 'is death bed. Fuckin' rats'll do anything to make money."

Ringo's blue eyes hurried over the paper so fast it was a blur. He threw it on the ground and clutched John's hand so tight his knuckles turned ivory.

"He's gonna be fine, lads. Don't worry. Johnny's a fighter." Ringo's voice was just above a whisper. A husky sob choked through him and he hurried out of his seat and into the hallway. George got up and followed him, calling his name. Paul stood alone.

"Just wake up, John." He said. A sigh. A tired sigh. "Please wake up."

Then, he walked away.

**(Thank you for the reviews on the previous chapter, they made me ever so happy! I've been busy with school so I couldn't upload and I apologise for this short chapter. Believe me they will be longer! A review would make my day. I'll try to update very soon.)**


	3. Names And Faces

The one day Paul, George, and Ringo were late to the hospital was the day John woke up.

It seemed like a lifetime since they had seen his eyes open, even if they were confused and furious it was still a wonderful sight.

However, they didn't dare step near. John was in quite a state, it was almost frightening. Not until he spoke did Paul jump forward.

"Where the fuck am I?! Get off me!"

Paul grabbed the railing of the bed. A nurse tried to keep John still. "What's wrong?" His voice was panicked.

"Post coma agitation, it happens. John, I need you to calm down. You're in the hospital." Another nurse said.

"I can't get those chords right, if I can't get them right they'll go mad!" The rhythm guitarist, pinned back to the bed by two nurses, had a wild look in his dark eyes. A look that scared Paul half to death. A look of uncertainty; he didn't know where he was.

The bassist glanced behind him at his two other band mates, both of them wore the same expression as himself; terror.

He was still now, but panting heavily. "Are you one the doctors?" He said to Paul.

"It's me, John, it's Paul. We're in a band."

"Where have we been banned?"

The bassist squinted, as if to look deeper into the blank eyes staring back at him. "N-No, we're IN a band. The Beatles, John. Ringo and George are here, look." He moved and the two other men moved forward.

By this point the nurses had removed their arms from him and laid him back against the sheets again, but John was still restless. He looked up at Paul. "Who's this, Pete?" He asked.

"I'm Paul," the bassist reminded again, as he placed a hand on his shoulder.

"It's Ringo," the drummer said, "Ringo Starr."

"Rhino,"

"Ringo. My name is Ringo, John, Richard. You call me Ringo." His blue eyes were furrowed in confusion, in sadness.

George stepped forward. "Hello, John," he said with a small smile. "Good to see you awake."

"Who's this, John? Paul asked encouragingly, giving him a small shake. "What's his name?"

"Rin... Ring?" He stuttered.

"No, nearly there; that's Ringo over there," Paul pointed over to Ringo and the drummer gave a small wave. He took John's shoulders in both hands and sat on the edge of the bed. "Who's this?" They looked over to George.

The Beatles waited expectantly. The rhythm guitarist blinked. "In the band," he said with a chalky voice. Paul grinned proudly.

"Yes he is! But what's his name, John?"

Those dark, empty eyes, foggy and dream-like, floated up to the dark-haired bassist next to him. He paused. Everyone in the room held their breath.

"Who are you again?" He asked.

Paul paced so much Ringo thought he would start to make holes in the floor.

"Paul, you're pacing's makin' me nervous," he said, only to have the bassist glare daggers at him with fiery eyes.

"And you aren't already?" Paul chewed on a nail, his shoulders tense, his movements erratic, "he doesn't even know our fucking names. He can't remember. What about if he never does?"

George intervened. "He will-"

"Oh? And how are you so sure, eh?" Paul spat. He ran a shaking hand through his hair.

"The doctors said the amnesia will only last a few days, Paul. He'll be back to normal in no time."

Paul frowned, engrossed in his shoes scuffing the polished floor. Trust George to always look on the bright side in the worst situation. He was so sweet it was sickly.

"The doctors didn't even know he was going to wake up, George. How can they be sure this'll just magically go away? We're fucked."

"Oh will you just listen to yourself, McCartney!" Ringo shouted.

Paul stopped pacing.

His blue eyes burned with a thousand embers. "It's always about 'us', ain't it? 'WE'RE fucked', eh Paul? But what about him? What about John?" His fists were clenched at his side's as he stood and squared up to the bassist. Though smaller, he could see Paul shrink under his gaze. "He's in there and he's alone and he's scared. He doesn't even remember half the stuff that happened in the past year. Imagine how terrifyin' it is to have a bunch of strangers tell you they know you. Imagine how scared he's feelin' right now, Paul. We're fucked? I think you better take a look around you and reconsider that statement."

Paul, wide-eyed, trembling with pent up anxiety and fear, watched Ringo shake his head and walk away. He heard the door to John's room open.

"Hey, John," Ringo said quietly.

"Hey, Rhino."

**(Another short chapter! I apologise if I leave any of you hanging. I have an extra long chapter for next time, which shouldn't be that long. Thank you for leaving a review and I'll see you next time!)**


	4. Of Sound Mind

"I don't bloody care what you think. I want him home now."

Paul, footsteps loud and angry, walked with clenched fists down the pristine, white corridor leading to the rhythm guitarist's room. Doctor Robert followed him on anxious heels.

"He only woke up a day ago and we haven't done any tests; there could be further complications we don't know about yet!" He said.

Paul stopped short in the corridor, the doctor almost crashed into the back of him. He turned angrily. "This whole fucking thing is complicated enough. John is better off being at home with his family, not stuck here with you white-coats. I'll take care of him fine."

"I don't quite think you know how serious John's condition is. The amnesia will be temporary but the brain trauma he has experienced is permanent. He's never going to be the same, you must realise that." Said Doctor Robert sternly. His grey eyes glinted with frustration but softened when the musician ran a shaking hand through his hair. "Look I know things are tough right now, Paul. I can release him tomorrow but you must phone me every day and tell me how he's doing. If he gets any worse, bring him back here. You're lucky you're talking to me; if it was any other doctor you wouldn't be getting him back this early."

"I know, I'm very grateful. Thank you, Doctor Robert. John appreciates this. We all do." Paul said quietly.

The physician nodded with a tight set of lips and walked away.

... ... ...

The ride back to their flat was uncomfortable.

Everything had been ever since John woke up, since he was knocked over by that blasted car.

John, in the front seat next to Paul driving, had fallen asleep quickly. The three Beatles were glad; they weren't quite ready to face the reality of their situation just yet. His head was resting on the window.

"What should we do?" Came Ringo's quiet voice from the backseat. Paul looked at his rear view mirror and saw the drummer's sad blue eyes staring back at his hazel ones.

"We get him in the flat, get him comfortable," said the bassist. His eyes flickered back to the road. They were nearing the house; Paul felt like throwing the car in reverse and driving ten more times around the block than rather walk back in there.

"Then what?"

Paul shouldn't have gotten mad. Thinking back on it now, he should have seen through Ringo's questions. He should have understood; John Lennon, creator of The Beatles, front man, the one who brought it all together, was their leader. He was the one who made the final decision. He was the one they all turned to when they were stuck.

And here he was, drool down his chin, mind at a loss. He didn't even know his own name only a few days ago. Who was going to guide them?

Paul shouldn't have gotten mad. But he did.

"I don't know, Ringo! I don't fucking know!" He shouted, angry and voice raw. John snapped awake. It was like a corpse zapped back to life by a bolt of lightning.

Silence.

"What happened?" Asked John.

No one answered.

... ... ...

John felt his hand tighten around Pete's-

Paul's. He was Paul. He kept forgetting-

And when they got to a door and inside he didn't let go until they were standing in the middle of a room. He didn't recognise it, but something went off in his head like a bell; he knew this place, he just couldn't comprehend it, however.

"Do you know where we are, John?" Paul asked him. He was so busy looking at his surroundings he almost didn't hear the question.

"We... we live here?"

"Yes!" The bassist grinned, though his heart sank at John's hesitation. Something told him that the rhythm guitarist didn't fully know where he was. "All four of us. We all share this place."

George sat down on a brown sofa pushed against the wall. "Why don't you sit down, John," he said, and John complied with guidance from Ringo. The drummer gently took his arm and sat him down.

"Do you want a cup of tea?" He asked.

John couldn't really recall whether he liked tea or not. "Um, no thank you."

"How 'bout you, George?"

"Yes, thanks Ringo,"

He walked into the kitchen area, where Paul was.

"You alright, Paul?" He asked. The bassist was bent over a note pad, scribbling away. "What are you doing?"

"I'm writing down John's reactions,"

Ringo blinked. "Why?"

Paul sighed. "If he can remember, I want to record how he reacts to things, you know? Like, if we went back to Liverpool and took him to the Cavern, if he'd remember it, how he would act, that sought of thing. Doctor Robert told me to tell him how John is getting on. I just have a bad feelin'."

"I think we all do right now, Paul." Said the drummer sadly. He gave the bassist a pat on the shoulder and busied himself making him and George tea. Paul closed the note pad and walked back into the living room, sitting himself beside John.

"So," the auburn-haired man said with a quiet voice, "we're in a band?"

George looked at Ringo walking back with the tea, Ringo looked at Paul, and Paul looked at George. No one knew how to go about telling him.

Paul only just realised, despite that man telling him about John never being able to play again, the band breaking up, and it being in the newspapers, he hadn't once thought about The Beatles since John's accident. It was like the fame had gone to the back of his skull. Friendship and worry had assumed roll of his thoughts. And it all came flooding back suddenly, like a burst dam, like a wave crashing onto a shore.

"Uh, yeah. We're in a band." He didn't know what to say. How do you explain the band you're in to the person who created it. "It was your idea."

John looked over to George and then back to Paul. "My idea?"

"You made the band, John. Do you remember?"

Everyone was hopeful. Everyone held their breaths.

"The... The Quarrymen..." John smiled, like a proud father. He looked at Ringo for approval. All the drummer did was look sad.

George shook his head quietly at Paul, deflation in his eyes. Paul rested a hand on John's knee, patted it like a child.

"Yeah, John. That's right." The bassist searched those dark, empty orbs for any scrap of remembrance, any hint of knowledge. He couldn't see; it was like looking into the old, dusty windows of an antiquities shop and finding nothing.

... ... ...

Paul pulled the sheets closer to his chest in an attempt to secure himself down to the bed so he wouldn't have to get up again.

Today, in a word, was tiring. Exhausting.

Oh, he was over the moon that John was awake. That he could walk and talk, that he hadn't a single scratch or bruise on his body. Paul was overjoyed.

John was there, the features, the voice, everything, except... he wasn't.

Paul didn't understand. It was like a complete different person had been put into his body but the brain and the heart and the personality had been ripped out; like John's inner-self had died in that accident but his body lived on. It scared Paul.

What if he never remembered?

What if he, George, and Ringo remained strangers to John forever?

Paul closed his eyes heavily. He felt the warming lull of sleep pull his body down closer to the mattress, like he was sinking into blackness and all his worries were crumbling away. He liked sleep; he could escape reality for a few hours.

"Paul! Paul, Paul, please! PAUL!"

A shrill voice, a shriek, cut through the peaceful blackness of slumber suddenly, like a knife slicing through a raven sky. The light out in the hall like a beacon, made him squint, as he hurried out of bed and pulled on his trousers quickly.

"_PAUL_!"

He almost stopped pulling at his jeans when he recognised the voice but raced out of the door and into the hallway.

Ringo and George's tired, worried heads each poked out of their rooms.

"John..." The bassist breathed, and he ran down the corridor into the rhythm guitarist's bedroom with George and Ringo behind him.

The room was dark; Paul didn't notice him sitting there on the bed with his head buried in his hands.

"John?" He approached cautiously, remembering when the auburn-haired man first woke up in the hospital and the wild look in his eyes. "What's the matter, John?"

Those eyes. Teary, brimming with emotion, Paul had only seen them like that a handful of times.

"Where have I been?" He uttered.

Everyone was quiet.

"I... I woke up and... What happened? I don't know what happened."

George looked at Ringo. "You were in an accident," the drummer said with a small voice. Paul was staring at John, kneeling at the edge of the bed. The bassist stood, sitting next to the man on the bed, and took John's shoulders in his hands like he had at the hospital.

"What?"

"You were knocked down, John, by a car. You were in a coma. And you woke up a few days ago, we took you home today. The doctors said you have some slight brain damage, and that the amnesia would only last a few days." Paul explained. "But it's cleared up now it looks like."

He blinked. "Am I still at the hospital?" And looked around at the three suddenly worried faces staring back at him.

"No... You're home, John." George said.

"Oh yeah..." John looked down at his feet, then back at Paul, "Let's ring George Martin and get down to the studio then!" He stood quickly, only to have Ringo, George, and Paul push him back down on the bed again.

"Woah, John, you just woke up from a coma a few days ago; we can't rush into things like that just yet."

The anger, like a flash of lightning, came fast and angry. "I'm not a bloody invalid!" He shouted. Ringo jumped back.

"John." Paul said, hazel eyes wide in confusion, "Calm down."

"Sorry, Paul."

And then he went quiet, slinking into himself like he was being consumed from the inside. His head was bowed.

"We'll calm Brian tomorrow," the bassist sighed, standing up and making his way to the door, "goodnight, John."

John turned his back.

... ... ...

**(I told you it was worth the wait; a longer chapter at last! I hope you enjoyed reading. Please tell me what you thought in a review, if you thought it was good, bad, mediocre. I'd love to hear from you! Next update will be soon. Thanks once again.)**


	5. Remember

George sipped his tea earnestly. It was 10 o'clock in the morning, a blue sky outside, birds singing from the window. The three Beatles were sat at the kitchen table huddled over their drinks, eyes heavy and sad.

The guitarist looked up at the bassist with a frown. "John."

"Someone should go wake him," Paul sighed, and pushed his chair out but George stood.

"Nah, I'll get 'im," he said, walking out of the small kitchen and about to venture up the stairs when he heard Paul yell.

"Any problems, give us a shout, George."

That made him squirm; like John was a problem patient or a dangerous animal. He was a human fucking being, for Christ's sake.

As he padded up to the second floor, he listened out. Hearing nothing but his own footsteps, he neared John's closed door and knocked gingerly.

"John?"

No answer.

"John? You awake?" He called again. His voice wobbled, and he cursed.

He turned the handle and opened the door a crack, poking his head through. The curtains were open, the bed was empty, and John stood next to the window, looking at George.

"Hi, John," the guitarist greeted. He stepped through a few inches more. "How long have you been up?"

"I was just... just setting the table," John said. He pointed at the sheets.

George's brow furrowed. "Making the bed?"

"Yeah,"

"Well you haven't done a very good job," George smiled, "the pillows are supposed to go at the top," he grabbed the pillows and put them at the top of the bed near the head board. Then he looked back up at the other man. "And you've got your jumper on backwards."

"Have I?" He blinked, but stayed still.

"Yeah- oh never mind, let's just go and get some breakfast, yeah?"

"Okay,"

John didn't move.

The dark-haired man frowned. "Come on then, John,"

"Alright," John nodded.

George had to walk over to him. He had a fuzzy look in his eye. "Do I have to hold your hand? Come on."

"I wanna hold your... your..." John's eyebrows knitted together in frustration.

"Hand!"

"Hand..."

"Alright, glad we got that sorted. Now let's go!" George made himself smile but inside he was furious; if he ever saw that driver again he'd kill him for making John this bumbling mess.

Eventually, the two men made their way downstairs and into the kitchen.

"Morning, John," Paul said, "sleep well?"

The auburn-haired man paused for a moment before sitting across from the bassist. "Yeah. Did you?"

"Alright, I guess- John? You've got your jumper on backwards, love."

"Have I?"

"Yeah. What do you want for breakfast?"

John stood. "I'll make tea,"

Paul was about to interrupt when the rhythm guitarist made his way over to the counter but Ringo stopped him.

His blue eyes were slightly desperate, his voice a quiet whisper. "Let's see if he can do it himself, yeah?"

The bassist gave a hesitant nod.

"Milk... milk..." John muttered to himself, as he searched through the cupboards.

"In the fridge, John," George called out to him.

He grabbed the milk from the fridge, leaving the door open, and went back to the counter, where he grabbed a mug and poured it in. Then, he got a tea bag from the jar and dunked it in the cup and sat back down at the table.

Paul, George, and Ringo looked at John's sorry excuse for a cup of tea with worried eyes. In any other situation they would have laughed. But they didn't this time.

"What happened to the water, John?"

"The wha'?"

"You didn't add any water; that's just milk."

He looked down at his drink. "Oh,"

Everyone was quiet. Not even the birds were singing now.

... ... ...

Paul put the phone down on the cradle. "I just called Brian, he should be coming over soon." Then, he looked back over at John still sitting at the kitchen table. Ringo had made him a proper cup of tea but it had gone cold; John did nothing but stare.

Sighing, the bassist went over to the quiet man watching his mug intensely. He sat beside him. "Brian's coming over; we can talk about getting down to the studio soon. Would you like that?"

John's dark eyes were foggy, like a misty winters morning, and half-lidded.

"Do you wanna try play something on the guitar?"

Nothing.

"Come on, John! Talk to me, let me in." Paul's voice boarded on anger. His fists were clenched on the table.

"Okay," John mumbled. He got up from the chair and walked over to the sofa, then sat down and stared at Paul.

Paul's expression was eager. "I'll go and fetch the guitar then!"

He ran upstairs, past George, and into John's room. Quickly plucking the classical guitar from the stand in the corner, he rushed out and back down stairs again.

"What's going on, Paul?" George asked, puzzled.

"I'm gonna try John with the guitar," he breathed, and all but ripped the living room door open.

John looked up. "What are we doing?"

Paul's bravado was slightly shaken. He paused. "Playing... we're playing the guitar, John."

"Okay,"

With steady hands, he passed the guitar to the other man sat on the sofa and then Paul sat on the floor in front of him. John looked lost. "What do I do?" He ran his fingers along the strings gently. It was like an artefact to him; it looked like he was scared to touch it.

"Anything," Paul told him, "play anything, anything you want. Go one."

The auburn-haired man gingerly placed his fingers on the neck and gave a strum. He managed, after a couple bum notes, to hit an E minor chord and looked to Paul approvingly.

The bassist nodded. His smile had faltered.

"I... I can't do it, Paul." He said. He put the guitar down next to him in a huff.

"No, no, sure you can!" Paul panicked, lifting the guitar up to John with fear in his eyes. "Have another go will you?"

"I can't," he muttered.

Paul shook the instrument. His hands were clammy, his ears burning with frustration, his orbs were the size of plates. He heard the door go but he wasn't concentrating on things around him; he just wanted John to play.

"Paul!" Came a voice from the hallway.

"Not now, George!" The bassist felt anger throb in his stomach. He was trying to remain calm but it wasn't working. "Play something, John. Please?"

"No."

"Paul, it's-"

"Please, George!" Paul yelled. His heart was racing. The front door slammed. He turned back to John. "Have a go, Lennon, please! Just try again-"

John exploded.

"I won't have another bloody go because I can't fucking do it, Paul! I can't fucking do it! I can't make myself a fucking cup of tea and I can't even dress myself! Can't you see, Paul? I can't fucking do it anymore!"

Silence, like an ocean, flooded the room, the whole house it seemed.

Brian stood in the doorway.

His eyes were sad. Everyone's had been, lately.

"Hello, John,"

... ... ...

**(Hello, everyone! Sorry I haven't updated for a bit; I've been very tired lately. This chapter was very fun to write so it would make my day if you left me a review telling me what you thought of it. Thank you so much for reading and I will see you soon. Cheerio!)**


	6. Touch Me

John, confused at first, narrowed his eyes.

"Brian?"

"How are you, John? Feeling better?"

The rhythm guitarist turned his head in Paul's direction. He saw the bassist staring back at him. George was now also in the doorway near Brian, his dark mop of hair shadowing his face slightly. John felt the three pairs of eyes burn holes through his skin.

He swallowed, finding it difficult due to the lump in his throat. "What is this?"

"What?"

"Am I a bloody loon? You look at me like I'm mad! Am I something worth staring at? A sore sight for the eyes?"

Paul put a hand on his shoulder, as if to suppress the bubbling aggression in John's voice, but the auburn-haired man shook off his gesture angrily.

"Don't fucking touch me, McCartney," his eyes burnt like cigarettes. "You can keep your hands off me too, George. And you Brian. And Ringo, wherever the fuck he is."

The bassist looked hurt. "We just want to calm you down; you're gettin' worked up-"

"I'm gettin' worked up, am I?" John repeated. He gazed in awe. "I'm gettin' worked up! Ain't that a laugh! You were the one goin' blue in the face trying to get me to play that fucking guitar. I'm getting worked up, am I? Fuck you, Paul. You don't know what you're on about."

"Lads!" Brian cut in. He watched Paul's fists clench. "John, Paul was only trying to help. Tensions are high, I understand that, but fighting isn't going to solve anything so can we just stop with this squabble?"

They both looked to Brian like children caught stealing biscuits.

The manager sighed. "So, Paul said you wanted to get down to the studio,"

"Yeah," John nodded. Paul looked down at his shoes.

"Do you think you'll be able to play?"

John wanted to shout again. He wanted to scream until his throat bled because he knew he wouldn't be able to play that sodding guitar like he used to. He didn't even know how to string some decent chords together; it would be like learning it all over again from the very start. He wanted to yell he could do it but he knew he wouldn't be able to, and everyone would look at him with those sad, pitying eyes like they always did.

So, instead of yelling, he just stood there.

"John?"

His hands were trembling, he noticed. His throat ached from that bloody lump. He felt the sting of tears threatening to fall from his eyes.

"I can't do it," he whispered. It felt like a thousand bricks had been placed on his shoulders. He had to sit down.

His mind was corrupted; a jumbled jigsaw of memories with pieces broken and missing. Seeds of times passed would flash brief in his mind. The bright lights of the car running him down and the screech of tires hit him hard. He winced and when he opened his eyes he saw Paul's worried face hovering just a few inches away from his.

"You alright, John?"

John felt the bassist's warm breath dance along his face like a breeze.

He felt an urge to reach out a pull him close. Frowning, he leaned back into the couch and stared down at his shaking fingers.

"I'm sorry, Brian. I don't know what I'm doing. It's all... it's all mixed up in me head." He swallowed that dry lump, like sandpaper, down his throat sorely. He grimaced.

Concerned blue eyes locked with his own hazy brown. "It's alright, John. We're here for you and we understand. Take as long as you need; no one is rushing you into making records, right Paul?" The manager looked at the bassist, who nodded sourly in return. "I order rest and relaxation for everybody, and I mean it."

From where he was kneeling, Brian stood up. He desperately wanted to hug the Beatle. John was like his son, and watching him go through this trauma tore him and the other men apart.

"I'll phone and visit regularly. Take care of yourselves, boys." He said, patting Paul on the shoulder and George on the back as he made his way out of the living room and into the hallway.

John heard the door slam.

The shuffle of footsteps, the sad, little sighs of his fellow band mates. George went back upstairs. Paul walked into the living room once again, though this time he kept his distance.

"I'm not important." John's head was bowed. "I can't even play," Paul had never heard his voice so quiet, "I'm not important to anyone anymore."

"You're important to me, you piece of shit,"

The rhythm guitarist looked up at the bassist standing close to him. His dark eyes were watery, and, he noticed after a moment of silence, Paul's were too.

"You're important to me," he said again. "You're important to all of us. And don't you ever think otherwise."

Paul kneeled and placed a brotherly hand on John's leg. Surprised, he didn't expect John to wrap his arms around his waist and pull him closer. It was an uncomfortable hug, but one of the best Paul had ever had in his life.

"I need you a little closer than just a pat on the fucking knee, Paul." Came a muffled sob.

The dark-haired man nestled his fingers in the lighter-haired man's locks. His other arm rubbed circles on John's back until he heard the man silence. They stayed like that for a few more minutes before he saw the door open and Ringo stand nervous in the doorway.

"Is this a good time?" He whispered.

Paul nodded. "I think he fell asleep," he looked down at John and confirmed his suspicions, eyes closed and breathing deep and even; the rhythm guitarist was out cold.

"Need any help with him?"

"Help me get him on the sofa?"

"Sure,"

The drummer and the bassist lifted him gently and placed him on the couch against the wall, draping a blanket over his torso and placing a pillow behind his head.

"I'm not surprised he drifted off," Ringo spoke in a hushed voice, just above a murmur, "he looks exhausted. And so do you. Why don't you go get some sleep. I've got it under control down 'ere."

"Oh, I couldn't-"

"Go to bed, Paul."

McCartney hesitated. What if John woke up and he wasn't there, what if he started acting up like before? He looked at the sleeping man with earnest.

"Do I have to carry you too?" Said Ringo with a small smile.

"Alright," Paul relented, "but as soon as he wakes up you come and wake me up too, okay?"

"Just go get some sleep, you moody cow."

"I'm going, I'm going."

As Paul trudged up the stairs to his room he was thankful; at least Ringo could retain some humour in all of this tragedy. He was the only one who had kept smiling through it all. The bassist didn't know how he did it, he was struck with jealousy.

Opening the door to his bedroom, he flicked on the light and glanced in the mirror as he passed. Since John had come home- since that bloody car mowed him down- his appearance had certainly gone downhill too, along with his life.

Bags, a mop of matted hair, and a hollow face. He was more concerned getting John better than actually looking after himself too. Ringo was right; Paul looked exhausted. He heaved a sigh and clambered into bed. In a few minutes he was asleep.

... ... ...

**(Hello once again, readers. I hope this short chapter will suffice for now. It's Johnny's birthday today where I am and so I decided to update as a small gift to you all. It's not a car or a cake but it's still a gift. :) Anyway, enough about me, what did you think about this chapter? Leave me a review! Anything! Thank you for reading and I'll see you soon.) **


	7. The Blood On His Hands

Whatever it was, it was loud.

A crash; a shatter or splinter from something fine and fragile. It gave a shriek, an echo that shook the house like a quake. But in his comatose state of weariness Paul ignored it.

He pulled the sheets tighter around his body, closer to the open crook of his neck where the cold air got in, and burrowed deeper into the mattress. It was his safe haven, his mistress. He didn't feel like tending to John right now as horrible as it sounded. He was tired. Ringo said he had John covered, anyway. It wasn't his problem anymore.

Oh how he wished for the old times; John's obnoxious sense of humour and his bossy orders. And his kind spirit hidden underneath layers and layers of cynical hard shell and scales. And his love. Paul knew how much love John Lennon had to give. It was more than he had ever imaged anyone could ever hold.

But... It wasn't his problem was it?

What if something had happened. What if John had freaked out and attacked poor Ringo. Or escaped out onto the street to be chased by hordes of screaming fans and paparazzi. It frightened Paul to death to think of him all alone out there.

He waged a brief emotional war with himself debating whether to get out of bed but before he could decide the door flew open.

In walked John.

The blinding light from the hall cascaded the rhythm guitarist into shadow. The shuffling silhouette closed the gap between him and the bed.

Paul, sitting up, flicked the lamp on. "John, what's the matter? Where's Ringo?"

John clambered on the bed next to the bassist. His face was a sleepy mask smeared lightly with... with...

What was that? Paint?

Blood.

Paul took John's face gently in his hands. "What happened to your cheek? You're bleeding." His voice wavered when he remembered the car mowing the other man down. Thankfully there were no broken bones or any other injuries, but Paul couldn't help but think what would have happened if the car had been going just that bit faster.

"I did the washin' up," John said. He held up his right hand close to Paul's squinting eyes. His fingers were slick with crimson.

"How did this happen, John?" Asked Paul. He made his voice gentle but inside he was filled with anger; how had Ringo let this happen!?

As the bassist tended to his finger, the rhythm guitarist spoke quietly. "I was washin' up and I reached in the bowl and cut me hand open, see?"

Washing up? Bloody hell. He was going to murder the drummer.

"Yes I see, John. Well," said Paul with weary eyes, "let's go downstairs and clean you up, eh?"

"Okay,"

Paul took John's arm and they made their way to the living room. He sat the rhythm guitarist on the sofa and, as he went into the kitchen area, he noticed.

Ringo wasn't there.

"Ringo?" He called out, but there came no reply. He shrugged and ran some cold water on a cloth and got a bandage from the medicine cupboard, along with some disinfectant. He noticed a broken glass on the floor but left it.

As he kneeled before John again, he took his hand.

"This is going to sting a little bit,"

John winced when Paul rubbed in the antiseptic. He tried to pull his hand away but the bassist held on tight. In a sort of motherly huff, Paul looked at John in disappointment and dabbled the cloth on his wound; there was a lot more blood than he thought. He looked back down.

"What am I going to with you, Lennon," he said quietly.

"Fix me," John replied.

Surprised hazel eyes flickered up to sober brown.

"What?"

"Well I'm broken ain't I? My head's all jumbled up like a pack of cards. One minute I'm like a little kid and then I'm me again. I'm broken."

"You're not broken, John," Paul said with a sad voice, "you're just going through a hard time- we all are. Things'll get better soon."

"They can't get no worse,"

Both men turned their heads when they heard the door slam. Ringo entered. His eyes were dark like tinted glass, his body heavy.

"Where the fuck where you?" Paul's tone boarded on hysteria. He stood, squared up to the smaller man with a glare in his hazel orbs and a snarl on his lips, and towered over the drummer.

Ringo did nothing but look at John. He shuffled past Paul and into the kitchen area.

"Where do you think you're going? I asked you a question!" The bassist followed the older man.

Ringo's voice was a hushed whisper as he leaned against the counter top with his back facing the other man. "We got a phone call,"

"About?"

"About John."

Paul's tense shoulders loosened slightly. His frown deepened. "What about John?"

"It was Brian. I was only gone an hour; I thought he would be asleep still when I got back!"

"What. About. John." Paul repeated.

Ringo's eyes studied the floor. "The driver's been found innocent. We're not gettin' any compensation."

The bassist felt like a deflated balloon. "Really?"

"I mean, it's not like we need the money, Paul-"

"But that bastard should be put away! Look what he's done!"

"It was a dark alley, John went into his path-"

"So you're sayin' this is John's fault?"

"No! It's just... if he had never stepped out like that..."

Silence, like a cold frost, settled slowly among them. Richard noticed the glass on the floor. He grabbed a brush.

"How did this 'appen?" He mumbled.

"John decided to do the washing up; cut his hand; dropped some things. Why didn't you come wake me?"

Ringo kept his blue eyes low. "We need all the sleep we can get. I didn't think he'd wake up so quick."

By the time the drummer had cleaned up the mess on the floor, Paul had sat back down with John on the sofa. Their voices were low. Ringo put away the brush and approached.

Paul's eyes flicked over to him. John looked up. "How's your hand, John?" Richard asked, kneeling in front of the rhythm guitarist.

Lennon's soft, dark eyes were the opposite to Paul's hard, sober ones. He gave Ringo a confused smile. "My hand?"

The bassist and the drummer exchanged glances. "You cut your hand, remember?" Paul reminded him, "We cleaned it up just now. See the bandage?"

"Oh, yes. I remember. I was playing the guitar,"

"That was before you went to sleep. You woke up and cut your hand when you started washing up; you came upstairs and woke me, John." Said the bassist. He had to remain patient; yelling at the man wasn't going to fix anything.

The rhythm guitarist looked lost. His vacant eyes pooled deep and dark like rippling water. "I did?"

Paul and Ringo remained silent.

"What's wrong with me?" He mumbled, "am I losing me mind, Paulie?"

Paul took a breath but suddenly the pounding of footsteps raced down the stairs. Three heads turned to George panting in the doorway.

"Lads," he breathed, waving the small, portable radio clutched in his fingers, "listen."

White noise blared at first, slowly turning to speech. _"...John Lennon of The Beatles was spotted walking out the hospital yesterday with the three other members of the pop group. Despite reports that the guitarist was on his death bed, he seems to have been discharged with a brain injury. It is unclear if he will continue to play with the band in his condition. In other news..."_

Paul snatched the radio out of George's hand and turned it off sharply. He set it down with a slam.

"Bloody bastards," he grumbled just above a whisper. Ringo and George exchanged glances. "Can't they leave us alone for two fucking days without spreading rumours?"

"Well, Paul-"

The phone rang. Everyone was a bit shocked until John jumped to his feet and put it to his ear.

"'Ello?"

Ringo got up from the carpet and dusted himself off.

"Yes, we have been listening to the radio, Eppy; it was about us, I think, and something about a bed."

Paul went to reach for John's sleeve. The guitarist shifted on the balls of his feet like a child listening to his mother.

"I don't know if- oh here he is, Brian, I'll put him on." John passed the phone to the bassist and wandered back to the sofa.

"Hello, Brian," said Paul wearily. He scrubbed a hand down his face. "...we can't do that!" Ringo and George's heads shot up at Paul's sudden outburst. "We shouldn't have to explain ourselves to them." His face, George noticed, was twisted in anger. "Absolutely not, no way, you're out of your- ...ask John? You'll have to ask him yourself, Eppy, and he's a tough one to convince... Okay, okay, I'll put him back on."

He handed the phone to the rhythm guitarist, who was now leaning over his shoulder.

"Hi again, Bri," he greeted. There was a pause. "A press conference? ...about me? About the... about the crash?" John's eyes suddenly darkened. "W-Well I don't know, Eppy... Are you sure?"

The three Beatles watched quietly. Paul's face was scrunched up in frustration.

"Well I would like to start performin' soon so maybe this'll help us... okay... we'll be ready. Ta, Brian, see you tomorrow." He put down the phone on the cradle.

"Well?" George asked quietly.

"He's comin' tomorrow at 12 to pick us up for a conference," suddenly the rhythm guitarist wasn't so cheery.

"Are you sure you're alright to do this, John? It's rushin' into things awfully fast..." said Ringo, nervously rubbing his fingers. His blue eyes were deep with worry.

"I'll be fine," the auburn-haired man smiled.

Paul noticed the smile didn't reach his eyes.

"What's the worst that could happen?" John said, and quickly disappeared back up the stairs.

* * *

**(Hello! It's me again here with another update. So, do you John is being too hasty? Do you think something bad is going to happen? Only time will tell. Leave me a review telling me what you thought as they make me very happy. :) Thank you for reading and I'll see you next time!)**


	8. It'll All End In Tears

John awoke with a start when Paul and George charged into his bedroom at 10 o'clock. When the chatter of the two men stopped, the rhythm guitarist's eyes closed again. The quilt keeping him warm was ripped from his bed.

"Wakey, wakey, Johnny boy," George murmured. A crescendo of bright light burnt his eyes from the morning sun filtering through his window. Paul drew the curtains back almost dramatically and, with a sigh, went over to John's wardrobe and started filing through it. He picked out a black suit similar to what he was wearing himself.

"Time to get dressed," the bassist instructed. He went to lay the clothes out on the bed when the older man growled.

"What are you doing?" He was on the edge of the mattress in his boxers and white string vest. His hair was a mess, he had dark, heavy bags hanging under his narrow eyes, and his lips were drawn back into a snarl.

"You need to get ready, John; Brian is coming over in 2 hours to pick us up."

"Oh," he said, and rubbed his eyes with a slightly trembling hand, "yeah. For the concert."

"Conference, John,"

"That's what I meant, George,"

As John stood, Paul set a clean pair of underwear on the bed and a pair of socks beside them. The rhythm guitarist noticed something.

"Is this in order, Paul?" He asked. His voice held a slight edge of disbelief.

Paul nodded his head. His doe eyes were serious. "Just so you put it on easier," he said.

John, mouth agape in silent anger, glanced at George standing near the door. The young Beatle looked the same as Paul. Had they discussed this? Had this all been planned?

Finally, he found his voice, "Well you ain't watching me get dressed, you can fucking forget about that."

"Alright, but if you need help don't be afraid to shout," Paul said, and he and George left the room quietly. John grumbled.

He looked down at the bed, studying the garments. With a small sigh, the rhythm guitarist began to undress and quickly slipped on the fresh pair of boxers. Then, he put on his trousers and pulled on his belt. His fingers fumbled with the loops and holes. He threw it down angrily on the floor after a few failed attempts to secure it to his waist.

"Bugger," he told himself, "I don't need the bloody thing anyway."

His eyes wondered over to the crisp shirt on the sheets. He picked up the shirt and he slipped it over his arms and his shaking fingers focused on the buttons.

Fuck. He swallowed. What pride did he even have left anyway?

"Paul?" He called with a small voice, so small he struggled to hear it himself. Paul's dark head of hair poked through the now open crack attentively.

"You alright, John?"

"I... I can't do me buttons,"

"What was that? You're mumblin',"

"Me fuckin' buttons, Paul! Help me with 'em, will ye'?."

Paul nodded his head but kept his eyes low, trained on John's smooth chest. His palms brushed against the skin. Their eyes briefly met then both flickered away.

After a moment, the bassist stepped back. "Why's your belt on the floor?" He asked. He picked it up.

"I couldn't do it," John replied gruffly, "the blasted thing wouldn't do up."

It came as a shock to the older man when Paul gripped the waistband of his trousers and started snaking the leather belt through the loops. John could only look at his face, the way the morning light glimmered in his eyes and danced on his soft button-nose. His hair was a dark sheen, fluffy and soft; John took a quiet whiff and hummed.

"What's the matter?" Paul suddenly asked, hazel eyes doe and deer-like as if caught in the headlights.

John swallowed and quickly thought of a lie. "I was just thinkin' about 'avin some brekkie; I'm famished." Paul bought it, nodding.

"Well, we're all done here so we'll go down and get some."

After John tied up his shoes and shrugged on his suit jacket, he and Paul descended down the stairs into the kitchen area. George and Ringo glanced at the rhythm guitarist.

"Mornin', John," the drummer greeted cheerily. He buttered a slice of toast and slid it on a plate towards the other man.

John, who in all honesty didn't feel very hungry, picked up the breakfast and nibbled. Paul nodded.

"You ready for today, lads?" Asked George, and though he addressed the whole group it was clear he was talking straight at John. Ringo and Paul muttered a few answers. John nodded absently and chewed in silence.

Paul's butter knife clattered on his plate and he made a small noise in his throat, something close to worry. "You know we can always cancel, John. We don't have to do this."

"I'm fine, Paulie," said the rhythm guitarist said rather calmly, "I'll be okay; nothin' I can't handle. Only a few cameras and microphones."

He had a smile that looked foreign to the bassist. Paul could tell- he was certain the others saw it too- that John wasn't prepared for the chaos of conferences, he wasn't ready for the hungry hoards that were the press, the fans eagerly awaiting behind fences with signs and photographs, screaming at the top of their lungs about how much they loved him. They were all anxious, none of them were ready, that's why he could see so easily through that smile, yet the bassist said nothing more.

Two tense and quiet hours had come and gone, passed like a chilly breeze. The Beatles noticed a black car waiting for them outside and heard a knock on the door. Ringo opened it to reveal a nervous-looking Brian with the wind nipping at his short, chocolate curls.

"Hello, Ringo," he greeted, steeping past the drummer, "are the other boys ready?"

"We've been ready since 10 o'clock, Eppy," George said. His head poked into the hallway from the living room. The manager gave an earnest smile and ushered Ringo to get his coat on.

"Will you tell John and Paul we're leaving,"

George's head disappeared for a moment, three Beatles stepped into the hallway and put on their coats. Ringo noticed John was struggling with his.

His touch was gentle, yet it made the rhythm guitarist jolt in surprise. "You alright, Lennon?" He asked, blue eyes staring up at two brown ones in concern.

"Yes, lad, now let's go."

As the five men stepped outside, the car doors opened for their entrance, and suddenly John stopped in his tracks.

Wheels screeched and screamed in his ears, burrowing into his skull. He could hear the wobbly voice of someone shrieking his name. He could feel a cloud of cotton wool wrap around his mind, his body fall down, thousands of miles into a dark abyss. Cold fingers curled around cobbles, a sobbing pillow crashed into him and wept in his ear.

"_John!_

_"Oh my God, Johnny. Fuck! What the fuck!_

_"Come on, Johnny, come on Lennon,_

_"John... John..._ **John**!"

A pat on the shoulder woke him from his walking nightmare. Paul's face floated just a few inches from his.

"What's the hold up, Lennon," the bassist said a little gruffly, though his hazel eyes were soft and understanding, "we're gonna be late."

With a meek shake of his auburn hair, the rhythm guitarist accompanied the younger man to the car. He watched Ringo's face sank back into the shadows when they climbed in. Brian's scrutinising gaze flickered uncomfortably back and fourth between John and the driver, until he motioned for them to start the journey.

The car was rather small, with Paul having to sit haphazardly half on John's legs and with half of his backside on the seat. He shifted erratically a few times before settling his view on the window.

"You comfortable yet, princess?" Despite the heat in his cheeks, John cracked a small smile.

Paul huffed animatedly, "very much so," then tossed back an amused smirk. It made the sensation creeping up John's neck flare a little more. "You alright?"

John's panic alarm sounded. "Fine," he lied "how are you? Ready for the press?" He gave the spotlight to Paulie; he always did when he didn't desire to draw any attention to himself.

And then Paul began nattering away, to which John tuned out to quickly like the younger man was a radio broadcast he didn't want to hear. His eyes shortly found his shoes.

_Am I ready for this?_

It seemed so long since he had even heard a frenzied scream from a fan, since he had seen a camera pointed straight at him. But it had only been a few days- a week maybe- and he had already dived back into the madness of it all. Anyone would be thankful just for a day without them, but not John; he craved the hysteria.

Soon, the car came to a halt. He looked up and his eyes met with cameras aimed like guns straight towards him. He pulled Paul's across his face so as to shield himself. His eyes screwed shut.

_Come on, Johnny, nothing you can't handle. Just a few cameras and microphones._

The door opened. He could tell because of the sudden cold wind on his legs and because Paul had jumped off of his lap. He felt a few pairs of arms pull him forward, fingers curl around his hands and limbs. He almost hit back. Almost. Until he realised once again where he was.

Two dark eyes peeled open grudgingly. As his boots hit the tarmac, he shuffled quickly in line behind the bassist. The dark-haired man was waving in a rather cheery way. It made John almost groan.

"John, over here!"

"Give us a smile, Lennon!"

Paul's angry face flashed in his mind suddenly, and John found himself moving forward to one of the cameras. The words slipped out before he even processed them.

"You're nothin' but fucking rats, you are!" He yelled and yelled, grabbed onto a collar, snarled into the wide-eyed face of a reporter like he was rabid dog going in for the kill. The flash of a bulb stunned him and he swung but his fist sailed through thin air, then he was caught.

A hand locked onto his shoulder like a vice. The rhythm guitarist was spun back to Ringo, with his mouth agape and his blue gaze twisted in worry. He mumbled a few words- maybe he shouted them, John couldn't tell from the loud ruckus of the paparazzi behind him- and ushered him quickly through a door and into darkness.

"What the fuck was that, John!?" Paul asked. Brian did nothing but screw up the hat in his hands and stare at the ground. Ringo still had his hand on John's shoulder in an almost protective way. George remained silent next to their manager.

"This was a bad idea," admitted Brian solemnly.

"You nearly punched a bloke out there," the bassist uttered, "and everybody saw it; they got your bloody picture!"

John was still squinting from the flash. "I don't know what came over me," he looked up at all of them with wide eyes. "I fucked up. I'm sorry, Eppy." His voice wobbled.

Then, came the tears. He pushed the oncoming swarms of fingers and hands away as he sobbed. He wanted to be alone. He didn't want to go out and be bombarded with questions, he didn't want to see the judging eyes. He wanted to curl up into a ball and make it all go away. A pair of arms wrapped themselves around his neck and pushed his head into a warm shoulder. John tried to get away but through all the tears his bravado had diminished completely and his strength had sapped. He wept into that shoulder like a son would to his mother.

"Shh," the voice almost cooed, "it's alright, John. We're here. You don't have to do this alone."

He gave a ragged breath, let his body sink into a sorrowful heap against the warmth of the other. The rhythm guitarist had lead arms at his waist and heavy eyes. He wanted to go back to sleep in Paul's arms like he had the other day. He wanted to wrap up in Paul and stay like it forever. He felt safe. But then Paul pulled away.

"Do you still want to go through with this?"

John almost shook his head no. He couldn't face going out there; he couldn't even control himself- he was a time bomb- but he didn't want to be cowardly. Lennon's never gave up. His Mimi hadn't, Uncle Jack hadn't, and he wasn't going to either.

"Yeah," his voice was quiet but fiery and determined. His watery eyes hardened like cinder blocks. He was going to get through this. He could cry later.

George cast a worried glance at Brian but nodded. The Beatles each took a sturdy breath before walking out behind the curtain and into the conference room. Instantaneously, chatter erupted from the reporters like an explosion. John felt another wave of panic wash over him.

The flash of camera bulbs blinded them as they sat at a desk covered in a sapphire cloth. Each of them had a small glass of water. With a wave of Brian's hand, the room silenced.

His enunciated words were sharp. "This conference was called for your questions about the recent events involving Mr Lennon's accident. You may calmly ask your queries one at a time."

The first hand shot up like a bullet. "Was it true you tried to attack a photographer outside just a few moments-"

"May I remind you all, _gentlemen_," Brian called, interrupting the man, "that this conference is about the accident and nothing else."

A few more mutters circled around the hall. John felt all eyes on him.

"Allegedly, you stepped out in front of the oncoming car with full intentions of it hitting you," said a heavy-set man in a brown hat. His wiry hair stuck out wildly. "Was this all part of an elaborate suicide attempt?"

John blinked. Another flash had his mind reeling. "Eh... no, no, it was an accident. I didn't... I can't really..." He drifted off. Paul's worried gaze was turned in his direction. He watched the rhythm guitarist take a hurried swig from the glass and set it back down a bit too forcefully.

"Mr Lennon, is it true that The Beatles are breaking up?"

Paul interjected. "Now what made you have that idea?"

"Due to John's brain injury," said a reporter, "won't it slow you boys' down from making records?"

"We'll find a way around it; John is very capable and he'll be on the mend soon, won't you John?"

The words blended together, came out a messy combination of tongue and gibberish. John squinted.

"Wha'?"

Paul frowned.

"Mr Lennon!" Came another voice. John's head spun. "I've heard it from a source that you're currently taking anti-depressants to combat the symptoms of your brain damage. Will your affliction stop your music career?"

"Hang on!" Ringo called, brows furrowed in confusion, "what affliction? 'E's not on any medication-"

"When did you start experiencing your delusions, Mr Lennon?"

"Is this all a hoax?"

"Are The Beatles dead?"

John couldn't take it.

He stood, pushed out his chair from behind him until it went crashing off the stage and huffed like a wild animal. The orchestra of camera flashes blazed like a burning sun until he couldn't see, and he went darting off the stage himself. Through the narrow space left by the swarming reporters, the rhythm guitarist charged though the double doors and out into the corridor.

"John!" Paul cried, getting up himself, "come back! _Johnny_!"

He ran. Tears streaming down his face, a wince on his lips and he shuddered along on his long legs, swerving round corridors until he found the one place he knew he could hide for a little while. He shut the door behind him and turned the lock. Then, he slid down the wall and pulled his knees up to his chest as he wept.

* * *

**(Hello there, long time no update. Well, it's only been a little while so I made sure this was a bit longer than the others. Thank you very much for reading and please be sure leave a review telling me what you thought! Poor Johnny, I am cruel to him aren't I? Until next time!)**


	9. Happiness Is But A Pill

"We have to find him,"

Paul had legs like rubber, a quivering set of fingers wrapped around the edge of the blue tablecloth. Everywhere he looked the reporters were shouting and stealing pictures. The bassist was both blind and deaf in the midst of the flashes and screams.

Security had quickly divided the press into two sections, parting them across the room. Brian and the three Beatles sprinted through the tight gap and out into the hallway.

"John!" That was George's worried voice. Paul couldn't take any of this in. He hadn't time to think before Brian spoke.

"Quickly," the manager breathed, as he started off down a corridor, "this way. Hurry!"

Their boots clapped like gunfire down the hall. They called out repeatedly but to no avail. It seemed like a maze, with John lost in the centre. Suddenly, Ringo spotted a janitor mopping up just to the side. He almost skidded to a stop.

"Have you seen a man come down here?" The drummer asked. He measured with his hands. "About this tall, light hair,"

The cleaner, a stringy wire of a man, nodded his head slowly. "I think I did see someone like that come down 'ere. He seemed in quite a bad way; cryin', mumblin'... He looked like he was 'eadin' to the toilet just on the left there."

"Thank you," Ringo murmured, his eyes wide with worry.

He and the other men stopped at the first wooden door they came to on the left. They huddled behind it anxiously.

"Johnny?" Paul called out. He heard a quiet sniff. He tried again. Then, he grabbed the handle and rattled it back and fourth; the door wouldn't budge. "It's locked," he told the others.

Brian knocked on the door in an authoritative manner, but his voice betrayed his bravery. "Open the door, John." He said. He had a bead of sweat trickling down his furrowed forehead like the first droplet of rain on a window.

"They're gonna dope me up, aren't they? They're gonna lock me away. I hit one of them, I nearly hit him!" A thick voice drifted quietly from the other side of the wood. Then, a sigh.

"No they aren't, John. Just let us in and we'll go straight home, you won't even see them." Bargained Paul, pressing his cheek up against the door.

A small moment of silence followed. It was almost deafening.

"What about you, Paul, are you gonna lock me up. You sendin' me back to the hospital? Were they right? Do I need to be on tablets?"

The bassist bit his lip.

"Just come on out, John. Please."

And once again there came no answer.

Paul felt a sudden pulse of frustration bite him. "Don't you think we're all scared, John?" His hazel eyes burned holes into the door. "You were the one rushing back into things; you're not well, and yet you decided to do this. It was rather foolish of you."

"Paul," Ringo gently touched the younger man on the shoulder. His blue eyes were shaded with a chiding sadness. "Don't take it out on 'im. 'E can't help it." George nodded silently in agreement.

An inward sigh shuddered through Paul violently. What the fuck had happened? When had things gone wrong? Why had they to begin with? They didn't deserve any of this, and shouting at the broken man locked away behind a fucking bathroom door wasn't going to do any of them any favours.

He knocked, "Open the door," let his dark head of hair fall against the wood wearily. "Let us in, John, we can help you. You don't have to do this alone."

"I'm a fuckin' freak," came a sob.

"...You're a beautiful freak," said Paul. He cringed internally at the thought of the others hearing him say that; they'd think he was a poof. "You ain't normal, John, far from it... but... none of us really are."

_Click._

The door opened and Paul almost fell into John's arms. Two dark, bloodshot eyes stared back into a pair of sad hazel. A mop of auburn hair hung low on a strong face, but the face itself quivered with tears.

"Johnny..." Paul breathed.

When the rhythm guitarist threw himself into the bassist's chest, Paul hadn't any air in his lungs to gasp.

"Fix me, Paulie," John begged, "this is hell."

* * *

The car came to a stop. Eight pairs of worried eyes peered out of the window like scared children. The driver came round to the side door and opened it with a tug.

"Guess we better get goin' then, before anybody spots us," Paul sighed, stepping out of the black vehicle. John shortly followed him. Then, Brian turned.

"Maybe it's best if you lads stay in the car," he told George and Ringo, "just so you don't all get swamped by fans."

The musicians nodded, the onyx window rolled up, and their nervous faces slipped away. Brian, John, and Paul made their way into into the hospital.

Within a few minutes they had found themselves at the front desk. A young blonde, who Paul found quite attractive and would have turned on his flirtatious charm to her any other time than now, sat behind the reception with a pen in her hand and a phone cradled in between her shoulder and her neck. Her eyes flickered up to the men and, with a smile, she quickly ended the phone conversation.

"How may I help you, gentlemen?"

Her sunny demeanour didn't help Brian's grim attitude. "Is it possible that we may speak to Doctor Robert?" He looked at John, "It's a matter of urgency involving Mr Lennon here."

Her brown eyes studied the papers at her desk. "Well, he may be tending to a patient at a moment but if you wait over there," she pointed to a bevy of chairs in the far corner of the room, "I'll make sure he sees you promptly."

"Thank you,"

The three men shuffled over to the seats and, with hunched backs and haunted faces, they waited.

The silence between them was broken by John's small voice. "Why are we here?"

Two worried glances were exchanged before Paul spoke, "You aren't well, John..."

Something snapped and a dam of tears flooded once again out of John's eyes. He buried his face in his hands. "I'm goin' mad; it's all over for us, ain't it?"

With a hand rubbing circles on the rhythm guitarist's back, Paul ignored the confused stares thrown at him from other people passing by. "It ain't over, it's just... we need to find a way to control your condition. You'll get better soon."

"With what? They gonna give me a bloody lobotomy or somethin'?"

"No, no," Brian hushed, "nothing as dramatic as that, John. Everything will turn out fine."

Before they knew it, they had lapsed into silence again, save for John's muffled weeping. Paul wanted to hug him ever so much but he didn't dare do it in public, especially while sitting in the middle of a hospital.

About fifteen minutes later, footsteps hurried beside them.

"Hello, John, Paul, Mr Epstein. I apologise for the wait; I've been busy with patients. Follow me to my office." The doctor had a slightly breathless voice.

As they walked to the Doctor's office, John slipped his hand into Paul's suddenly, kept his eyes low, and padded along. Paul gasped lightly but kept his grasp. He almost smiled. Then, they arrived at a door.

Inside the office was a large, mahogany desk pushed quite far away. It had a tall velvet lined chair sitting behind it and two chairs in front. There was a window behind the desk as well, revealing a cold, grey afternoon and a blanketed sky. The beige carpet whispered underneath their shoes as they entered.

"Please," Doctor Robert smiled, "have a seat."

Brian and John sat down at the two chairs while Paul stood on the other side of the rhythm guitarist with a comforting hand on his back, nestling lightly.

With a slight groan from the chair, the doctor sat opposite them. "Now what seems to be the problem?" He said. John watched carefully as he took out a pen from his breast pocket and a pad of paper from the side of the desk.

Brian tried to explain but he couldn't quite get his words out. Paul remained silent.

"Why don't you tell me, John," instructed the doctor.

John blinked his dark eyes and stared down at the paper in the doctor's hands.

"Everything,"

Doctor Robert motioned him to elaborate. He didn't write anything down.

"Everything's a problem. I'm loosin' me mind. I can't remember things, then I can. I'm havin' trouble dressing me'self, I can't think. I nearly hit someone; I'm going insane."

There. He started to scribble. Paul's lofty voice drifted in from beside him.

"'E locked himself in the toilet, Doc, wouldn't come out. Panicking a lot, aren't you John? Gets phrases all mixed up... sometimes 'e forget things that only 'appened not long ago." Paul's gentle hand moved to the nape of John's neck and massaged softly.

The doctor made a noise in his throat. He looked up at the three men with clinical eyes. "These things tend to happen with brain injuries. Memory loss is quite common, as is anxiety and the feeling of hopelessness. However," he looked down at his notes briefly, "there isn't really anything we can do-"

"What? You must be jokin'!" Paul gaped. A bloody hospital couldn't fix his friend's head?

"It's unfortunate, but it can't be done. Your fine motor skills are corrupted but the only long-term cure for that is physical therapy. Your memory will become more reliable over time with training and educational exercises... I _can_ do something about your anxiety though, John."

The rhythm guitarist sighed. "I'd give you everythin' I've got for a little peace of mind, Doc."

He turned. John hadn't noticed but there was a large, clear cabinet to the left of the room. In its shelves were dozens of bottles, all shapes and sizes, all different colours and pigments. John watched in awe as he took out his key and unlocked the cabinet, selecting a white bottle and handing it back to the rhythm guitarist.

"What's this?" He asked.

"Phenelzine," Doctor Robert replied, "it's a mild anti-depressant also used to treat anxiety disorders."

John tensed like a spring. It had come true. He was on meds now. They _had_ been right. Maybe he was going crazy.

Paul's fingers grazed the bottom of John's hair and caressed deeper. He could feel the older man squirm when the doctor presented him with the pills.

"One a day should do the trick, and if nothing changes come straight back here." And with that, Doctor Robert pushed out his chair and held the door for them with a smile that was completely inappropriate for their current situation. They filed out and the door shut behind them.

* * *

The house was quiet.

It had been an hour since Brian had left. Everyone went off to do their own thing; George probably strumming away at his guitar in his room; Ringo was outside smoking; Paul and John were in the living room together.

"These fuckin' pills aren't workin'," John complained.

"It's only been half an hour since you took them, you stupid git," said Paul lightly. His demeanour had certainly softened since watching John weep like that. It was something the man didn't do often. It made Paul's heart sink whenever he saw John in that state; he was far too beautiful to cry.

Now he had to take these fucking meds to make him happy. Paul didn't know what was worse.

"You held my hand," Paul mused aloud, "when we were walkin',"

He watched John lift his head from the couch and smirk a little. "Yeah," he rested a fist under his chin, "what about it?"

"Oh nothin'... it was nice."

John lowered his head back down on the couch cushions with a little sigh. Paul stood and threw a blanket over him.

"I'll tell you what mate you look bloody comfy there," he said.

John mumbled, it must have been the happy pills kicking in finally.

"It'd be better with you,"

Must have been.

_Right?_

* * *

**(Greetings, readers! Thanks so much for checking out this chapter and I'm sorry for the wait; I've been very tired recently to write but here it is. So, tell me what you thought of this update by leaving me a review. It really means the world to me. Thanks again and I'll see you soon!)**


	10. Lust, Like A Strong Grip

**(WARNING: This chapter is where things start to turn slightly more mature in the story. Plenty of sex references in this one.)**

* * *

A swirling lasso of smoke circled lazily about the kitchen early in the morning as the drummer sucked on his first cigarette of the day. He unfolded the newspaper with his ringed fingers and, hesitantly, he squinted at the front page. Black and white bold stood out immediately:

**_"BEATLE JOHN SUFFERS BREAKDOWN"_**

He sighed, "Bloody hell," and folded the paper away again. Grinding out the cherry of his cigarette, he took a swig of coffee and stood to toss the newspaper in the dustbin. "Where you belong," he muttered, when suddenly his eyes caught something on the counter top. Edging closer, he noticed that it was the same pad of paper Paul had been writing in from a few days earlier. He found himself flipping through the pages slowly.

Dates were written at the top of pages, a small passage or a few short words below.

_'Arrived home today, John seemed to slightly recall the furnishings, although he was mostly confused." _Ringo's brow furrowed as he carried on reading._ "Later regained memory._

_'John struggles to dress himself and make tea correctly. Tried to get him to play the guitar but to no avail. Brian visited. John broke down in my arms. Later woken up by John coming into the room with a gash in his palm. Brian rang and plans for a conference were made._

_'Still struggling to dress himself. John tried to attack reporter. Panicked and confused during conference. Fled from conference room shortly after and locked himself in the toilet. Doctor prescribed John anti-depressants. Homosexual advances?'_

Ringo's eyes widened. He read the last line twice to make sure they hadn't deceived him.

"Homosexual advances?" He whispered in a breezy voice, small with confusion. "What the bleedin' 'ell..."

The living room door creaking open made Ringo quickly shut the cover of the note pad and, in a particularly flustered manner, lean unnaturally against the counter top. George entered the sitting room sleepily and the drummer relaxed.

He greeted the younger man, "Mornin', lad, sleep well?"

George's bird-nest of wild hair bobbed up and down in response. He gave a yawn. "Yeah, alright. Why are you up so early?"

"I could ask the same to you. Coffee?"

"Sure," the guitarist replied, "but you didn't answer my question."

The drummer poured the pre-heated kettle water into a mug with the coffee granules already inside. He gave it a swirl and dropped a cube of sugar into the drink. Handing it to George, the drummer explained. "Haven't been sleepin' well lately... bet you can't guess why,"

"I know the feelin'; this whole situation is makin' me go a little mad me'self. And now 'e's on tablets, Ringo... just like the press said would 'appen. I can't help but worry."

Richard nodded. "Me too, George. I suppose it's for the best though; poor bloke couldn't even get out 'is own 'ead. He'll be on the mend soon I bet, we just gotta give it some time and be there for 'im."

George took a cautious sip from the hot drink. "I 'eard him crying last night."

"No... again?"

"Yeah," he said with a sad voice, "kept me awake half the night. I can't bear to 'ear him like that." A bony set of fingers combed through his dark locks. "Paul calmed him down around 2-ish."

"In the morning?"

"Yeah,"

"How did I sleep through it?" Ringo gaped. He really must have been tired.

"I don't know; he bloody shook the whole house with his blubberin'. You must 'ave been out like a light." Replied the guitarist, setting his mug on the counter. He patted himself down. "Got a spare ciggy?"

"Sure," Ringo gave a cigarette to George and lit it.

The drummer's mind still raced about what he had seen in Paul's note pad. Was John queer? If he was, it certainly wasn't a problem in Ringo's books; after all, Brian was gay and he was one of the most genuine men Richard had ever met, but it would still be a shock.

John Lennon, queer?

Why was Paul hiding this information? Surely John would want his closest friends to know of his new feelings. Could he only confide in the bassist? The thought made the drummer's heart sink. He eyed the lead guitarist puffing on his cigarette warily; should he tell George what he'd found? He opened his mouth.

"...George-"

Suddenly, the sitting room door swung like the wind had kicked it open. It gave a creak, and slowly a muddled-looking John crept through. Ringo shut his lips tight again.

"Hello," George greeted the rhythm guitarist with a half-hearted cheer in his voice, "what's the matter, John?" The drummer could practically hear the frown in the younger man's tone.

John replied with a sub-human-like grunt. His eyes drooped heavily when he passed by Ringo, he reeked of stale cigarette smoke and it left a scented trail behind him. George wrinkled his nose.

"Do you know if Paul's awake?" He asked. The question was directed to John but the youngest didn't receive an answer, not even the courtesy of noise. "Right. I'll go check then," he took one last puff of his ciggy and placed it in an ash tray before scampering up the stairs; it was now John and Ringo alone.

He can't be gay, can he? Ringo thought, surely he would have told me as well as Paul; I'm his friend.

A rustling sound alerted the drummer that John was now rummaging through the cupboards. He turned to find the rhythm guitarist with a white medication bottle clutched in his fist. The other hand struggled to open the lid with messy fingers.

"Let me do that for you, John-"

"I can do it me fuckin' self,"

Richard dropped his hands back down at his sides limply. He watched as John's face impatiently twisted into anger and suddenly the small bottle was hurled across the room with a frustrated scream.

Paul was definitely going to be awake now.

Ringo's eyes widened, "Calm down!" It felt like he was chiding a misbehaving child throwing a temper tantrum.

John yelled and yelled- half the things he said were meaningless slanders or gibberish or animalistic moans- and Ringo tried to silence him; it was far too early for another melt down. He grabbed John's wrists and pulled them to his chest, in the process of forcing the other man to stare straight into his pleading eyes.

"It's alright, John, everything's alright. You're fine. Just. Be. **Quiet**."

Ringo felt a small surge of importance flow through his veins like fire; he had never been able to speak to John like that before; he had never really made a connection.

The brown eyes rippling back into the blue were watery with tears that threatened to fall. He looks absolutely lost, Ringo thought. This wasn't the John he knew. This was... someone else.

"Do you want me to open it for you?" Ringo asked quietly.

John just nodded, and the drummer went to collect the pill bottle up from the carpet across the room. He could hear George and Paul's gentle murmuring from above. They must have been discussing the noise.

"Here we are," Ringo said softly, "watch me, eh John?" He pushed the lid and twisted, and it came off with a 'pop'. He repeated it a few more times until John muttered.

"Push... twist... I got it, Ringo,"

"Alright," He handed the bottle over to the rhythm guitarist and watched as he shook out a yellow pill and put it on his tongue, gulping down a swig from George's abandoned mug of coffee. He grimaced.

Richard slapped on a lopsided smile, "There you go," he patted John on the shoulder but pulled away when the other man flinched. "How are you feelin' this morning?"

Ringo didn't really need an answer to see that John was quite the opposite of any positive response he could give. Two beady eyes stared back and, although they were dark and rippling, they appeared empty. His hair held a slightly greasy sheen to it, limp and matted on a muddled head. He had a set of shaking hands and fingers, trembling digits that couldn't keep still so he shoved them into his dressing gown pockets like he was concealing a weapon. No, he really wasn't fine at all.

"Shit," he muttered, sitting himself down on the sofa in the living room. He sighed. "I just wanna be normal again, Rings."

'Were you ever normal to begin with?' The drummer thought. He didn't really know what to say. The knock on the front door saved him the trouble.

"Who could that be at this time?" He pondered aloud, making his way out of the living room and to the door. "Stay here," he ordered John as he left.

Richard eyed the front door warily before pulling it open a crack. His worried, blue eyes met with Mal's cumbersome expression and his arms full of sacks.

"Mail," he explained shortly, handing the four bags haphazardly over to Ringo.

"Oh, won't you stay for a cuppa?" The drummer offered.

The road manager shook his head with a tight set of lips. "I have to dash; Brian is at 'is wits end and I 'ave to make sure he doesn't explode on us."

"I see... well goodbye then."

Then, Ringo shut the door and dumped the sacks at the bottom of the stairs in the hall. George's lanky frame all but tumbled down the steps.

"Who was that?" He asked.

"Mal," Ringo sighed, "We've got letters to read."

* * *

They were all gathered on the carpet in the centre of the living room like children on Christmas day, except the usual festive joy you could feel like electricity through the air was missing.

"Dear Ringo," the drummer read aloud, "I have a nose like yours but I am a girl. What should I do?" He frowned when George and Paul snickered quietly. "Go on then, Paul, let's 'ear one of yours."

The bassist cleared his throat. "My dearest Paul, I am madly in love with you. I have fainted for you six times." Ringo and George cooed in feminine voices and chortled to themselves while Paul fluttered his eyelashes and pretended to blush.

George spoke next, "George, I adore your accent; I could listen to you speak for hours." The guitarist grinned with his sharp fang-like teeth while Paul tried to imitate his voice and failed.

Then, silence fell like night when all eyes settled on John staring at one of his post cards with half-lidded orbs of dull brown. His mouth was open slightly, his hair hung over his face like a curtain.

"John?" Paul was uneasy. "What's it say?"

The voice was low and quiet. It was just above a whisper.

"Johnny baby," said the rhythm guitarist with a chalky tone, "I think about you everyday. I'm a few years younger than you but I think of us together and I can't control myself. You're so very sexy..."

Ringo's eyebrows raised. "Well that's not so bad-"

"Below I have attached a photograph of myself, which I hope you will enjoy. Lustfully yours, your number one fan."

John said nothing then, just continued to stare at the card like his eyes were burning through the paper. Paul reached over and snatched the card from his hands and let his eyes run over the picture.

"Oh my God..." He breathed.

His nose wrinkled in disgust and he stormed into the kitchen and threw the letter into the dustbin. He caught a glimpse of John's angry face on the front cover of a newspaper amongst the other rubbish but in his anger he ignored it.

John was still in his position on the floor when Paul entered once again: slightly hunched and eyes down. He looked awfully tense as he sat cross-legged. His too-big dressing gown pooled around him like a sea of warmth. The guitarist and the drummer just stared at the bassist in confusion, but all three pairs of eyes flew to John when he uttered in a breezy voice.

"I need a shag..."

* * *

They were dressed and ready at around 1 o'clock with nowhere to go.

Paul tinkered on his bass like he was caressing a girl. With a bevy of fingers, he picked up his pencil and etched down some lyrics on the paper. His eyes slowly wandered over to Ringo's when he felt a stare burn through his side. The older man had his chin rested on his hand patiently.

"Wha'?" Paul asked.

Richard shrugged. "Nothin',"

Paul raised his eyebrows and then went back to scribble more words. However, he couldn't shake the odd feeling that Ringo was doing more than just innocently staring.

He looked up again. "What are you bloody lookin' at, Rings?"

"The notebook, Paul,"

"Huh? What about the notebook?"

It seemed for a moment Ringo hesitated internally. "I saw the note pad open on the counter this mornin', I 'ad a look,"

Paul squinted. "So?"

There it was again, the conflict inside his eyes. It was like he was arguing with himself.

"Is John gay?" He asked quietly.

The bassist widened his eyes. "Pardon?"

"You wrote... homosexual advances, Paul... Was John... coming onto you?"

Paul had to decide himself.

Maybe he was reading too into John's words. Maybe it was in fact the recent stress and the medication speaking for him. John wouldn't say that on his own accord. Of course not.

But why had he held his hand? Why was he so desperate to touch Paul? He did blush an awful lot when Paul had to sit on his lap in the car that one time...

It was ridiculous. John wasn't queer; Paul was just being silly.

"No," he said to the older man, "I don't know why I put that, Ringo. John likes his birds; you saw 'im earlier. 'E was gaggin' for a shag, he even said so 'imself."

The drummer nodded in understanding but frowned again. "What was that a picture of anyway?"

Paul almost grimaced at the memory. "Some lass- must have only been about 15 I'd say- topless. I don't know how it got past the post office like that."

"Oh God..." Ringo shook his head in dismay; that rarely ever happened. After a moment of pause, he spoke again. "Why was John cryin' last night?"

"'E said 'e wished none of this had ever 'appened," Paul answered sadly.

Silence fell once again, until the bounding sound of two pairs of footsteps pounded down the stairs. George and John entered the sitting room.

"Fancy going out somewhere, lads?" Proposed the rhythm guitarist.

"Where to?" Said Ringo.

"Well I got an invitation to this fashion show thing for tonight, could be a laugh I suppose."

Paul and Ringo exchanged glances. "How about it, John? What do you think?"

John nodded. "As long as we're anywhere but 'ere, I'm happy."

* * *

The dark hall carried a potent smell of expensive cologne, a sweet daisy-scented perfume that tickled the senses provocatively. The room was cool and clean, rows of benches one after the other below a catwalk illuminated by white and blue lights angled each side. The four men in their suits arrived a little later than most but were still seated at the very front because of their notoriety.

After a few minutes of chatter, the remaining lights dimmed and the music began to play. It was the first woman walking out onto the stage that caught his attention.

Her legs seemed never-ending, long and thick, and toned. He licked his lips hungrily. Two petite breasts danced under a cherry garment, hidden. He could practically feel the lust radiating off his skin.

She disappeared back into the black curtain, and another woman returned. Her dark hair moved as her hips swayed in the melody. Two piercing eyes called out to him. He could feel himself longing for a taste. Then, she evaporated back into the shadows.

He looked around himself; the dark-haired man beside him watched attentively. The lighter-haired man with his blue eyes look slightly disinterested. The youngest had his gaze fixed on the floor.

When he heard the clip-clop of a pair of heels clack across the catwalk, his head shot back to the stage. She was a bronze beauty wearing a flowing lilac gown. When she turned, the man could see her assets accentuated perfectly in the light. He couldn't control himself.

He stood, all eyes were on him.

"Would you _look_ at the tits on her!" He shrieked.

Paul's face dropped in utter embarrassment and he stood with John and quickly murmured threats in his ear. He thoroughly apologised to the audience and the fuming model onstage, while he dragged the rhythm guitarist out of the hall like pulling a child away from a sweet store.

His face was red, his footsteps loud and angry on the tiles. When he found a store closet, he threw open the door and tugged John inside, then locked the door with the latch. They were trapped in there: the older man cornered next to the bleach bottles and the mop bucket with sad eyes.

"What the _fuck_ was that, John!?" Paul screeched. He wasn't holding back any longer. "Are you fucking insane! Do you like humiliating yourself?" Paul ranted and raved, blue in the face expressing his rage. His hazel eyes bulged out of his skull as he yelled.

John fiddled with the material on his trousers. He was still as tense as a spring. "I've got the worst fuckin' case of blue balls you ever did see, Macca, alright? I'm in desperate need of a fuck."

"That does not give you the right to talk to that woman like that! You must understand that there is a line we aren't supposed to cross, and you've gone straight past it. How do you think the public are gonna react now? They've already seen you try to punch up the press."

John's face fell slightly. "They... saw that?"

"It's in the bloody newspaper, John."

His dark eyes pooled into two black holes of sudden sadness. His crotch ached as well as his heart. He looked at Paul with those dark, hungry orbs and bit his lip.

Good thing the door was locked.

* * *

**(Oh my goodness, it's been a long time hasn't it? I'm so sorry this took so long but I made it an extra long chapter for you all.**

**The letters Ringo, Paul, and George read are actually extracts from real letters sent by fans.**

**So, what did you think of this tense chapter? What is John planning to do with Paul? Only time will tell.**

**Reviews are my oxygen.)**


	11. The Cars

"John? Are you even listening to me!?"

The rhythm guitarist looked at the bassist with hungry eyes. He felt his crotch pulse and couldn't hold back the urge any longer: he pounced.

They were pressed against each other. Paul had been crushed against the closet wall, squeaking out a yelp of surprise. When John had pushed harder against him, he fell silent.

His voice shook: a whisper over John's husky breaths, "W-What are you doing?" Then his eyes widened when John inched his face forward closer.

His dark orbs were watery with lust and pain. "Just... don't move, will you Paulie," he said as he rubbed the bassist's chest with a coarse hand through his shirt. He felt Paul tense under his touch.

Paul couldn't even catch a breath before John had pinned his lips down on his own. The older man's tongue tried to breach past Paul's mouth in a violent snog, but McCartney pushed him away.

"Get the fuck off!"

John ventured back just as swift, this time rubbing his groin against Paul's thigh like a dog in heat. His hands raced through the bassist's dark locks. Another kiss made Paul grunt back angrily and try to escape but to no avail. Finally, the kiss was broken and before Paul could call out, he felt John's mouth suck at his neck as another hand danced along the inner side of his thigh and dangerously close to his cock.

John licked and nibbled and chewed on the side of Paul's neck like it was his last meal. A particularly violent suck made Paul wince.

The bassist scrambled closer to the door but John had him pushed against the wall with all his might. Each attempt Paul made to break free, the more hasty John got with his mouth and his exploring hands. A venomous tongue suckled Paul's ear and the bassist's eyes rolled back into his head slightly in euphoric fashion, though he still fought to get away.

To his surprise- and horror- he heard himself moan when John cupped his package with a tender hand.

"Stop, John, please-" he begged, only the have John growl angrily at him, thrusting him harder against the wall. Paul felt waves of pain shudder up and down his spine.

"You're mine," the older man said firmly, much to Paul's confusion.

Another round of hasty kisses flew by, and John's bone-like fingers traced along the zip to Paul's trousers. The bassist almost yelled.

"Get off me, John." He tried to keep his voice steady, but to no avail. His hazel eyes bulged when he felt John's semi-erection pressed against his thigh and his fingers start to tug down Paul's zipper. The rhythm guitarist had one hand on the bassist's fly and the other pushed against the younger man's chest, keeping him there. John's eyes glinted with lust.

Suddenly, John groped greedily and Paul shoved him off, screaming at the top of his lungs.

"I said get off me, you fuckin' _queer_!"

John panted like an animal, his body was now backed up into the corner of the janitors closet. Each man was suddenly very aware of the small space keeping them apart: each had a haggard look in in their eyes as they stared. John looked ashamed.

There was a cold silence between them, save for the rhythm guitarist's laboured breaths. The aftermath of Paul's outburst still felt like it was rattling around the room they stood in. Paul adjusted his ruffled hair and his slightly scuffled clothes accordingly and edged over to the exit. He took one quiet glance at John and opened the door.

"I'm going to call a car to pick you up,"

Then, he let the door slam as he left John alone.

... ... ...

The car pulled up outside the building. It had a long hood with a dainty ornament protruding proudly off the end. The black paint glimmered in the dim lights shining from the club behind him as he walked down the steps with two burly men flanking either side of him. Paul also followed. George and Ringo stood at the top of the steps watching.

As another man opened one of the back doors, John cast a look back at his two band mates further away. They both wore faces twisted with worry. Then, his dark eyes lapped up the harder expression of the man who had opened the car door for him, standing just an inch to his right. He had two beady blue eyes and a short buzz of blonde hair gracing his head. His firm line of a mouth jittered as he spoke.

"Get in, Mr Lennon," he looked over to Paul talking to another man for a moment, "we're taking you home."

"Aren't the rest of the lads coming?" John asked with a cocked eyebrow.

"Mr McCartney and your other friends will be joining you later. Now, if you would please have a seat, we shouldn't be too long, sir."

John paused for a short moment and stepped into the car. As he sat, he watched Paul break off his conversation with the chauffeur and then step back. His sad hazel eyes drilled into John's darker brown. The door was shut and the engine roared to life. After a moment, the car began to pull away. John watched Paul until he became a smaller speck in the darkness and he was gone.

As the world spun by outside the window, the rhythm guitarist rested his head wearily against the glass. He couldn't believe how much of an idiot he was. Trying to get it on with Paul like that: his best friend: his _straight_ best friend. It was ridiculous. No doubt the bassist would tell the others and have him locked away for it. Maybe Brian would understand...

John wasn't queer, right? John loved women. He loved their bodies... their... their...

Was that the only thing he liked about women?

He was a rock star. He was John fucking Lennon. He could get any woman he wanted. Why was he lusting after another bloke? Why was he lusting after _Paul_?

"I'm losing me mind..." He whispered to himself and shut his eyes.

"Is everything alright back there, sir?" Said the chauffeur suddenly, breaking John out of his doze.

"Fuckin' dandy," the rhythm guitarist mumbled back in reply. He raised his voice a little. "What was Paul sayin' to you?"

The chauffeur, John noticed, blinked back into the rear view mirror and cocked an eyebrow at the other man like he didn't know what he was talking about. "I beg your pardon?"

"You were talkin' to Paul; what did he say to you?"

"He said to drop you back home... He asked me to keep an eye on you also, in case you needed anything."

John rolled his eyes. "More like he wants you to baby sit me so I don't hurt me'self. I'm a grown fuckin' man, you know."

"I know, Mr Lennon, but it's Mr McCartney's orders-"

"Oh? And Mr fuckin' McCartney thinks 'e can just _order_ me about does 'e?" John still had the pent up lust flowing through his veins like fire in his system; he was shaking with anger like a tense spring. "We'll see about that."

As they slowed to a stop in front of some traffic lights, John ripped open the car door and bolted from the seat like an animal being released from captivity. He narrowly avoided a man on a bicycle as he scrambled to get out of the road and onto the pavement. He looked back quickly at the stunned driver honking the horn and trying to pull over so he could collect the fleeing musician, but before he even had the chance to chance gear John was gone.

His mop top flew behind him as he ran. This was liberating, he admitted. He had missed exploring out in the night like this; he hadn't had the chance since he'd become famous. The wind whistled in his ears as he skidded down an alleyway but soon came to a stop.

There, at the bottom of the the alley, two bright, glowing lights waited for him. The beam from them blinded him and his face turned into a squint, lifting a hand up to shield his eyes from the lamps. Slowly, the aggressive rev of an engine growled like a rabid dog as the wheels of the car edged forward. John let his mouth fall agape.

It was _him_.

It was the driver, out to get John, the same sleek, black car, out to kill him, to run him down like he did the first time. It was him, and John couldn't mistake it for anyone else.

Once again, the car stopped. It was almost like it was taunting the rhythm guitarist, but yet John didn't have the sense to run away or move. His wide, brown eyes never left the two headlights staring him down, burning through his soul.

"What do you want with me!?" John yelled. He removed his hand from his forehead acting as a visor to shield his vision and placed them down by his side. "What do you want!?"

The engine moaned low and angry in response. It crept closer once again. The horn screamed at him, so he screamed back twice as loud and just as hysterical.

"Why do you want me dead, huh! I've done nothin' to you."

The vehicle halted. John was panting so much he almost didn't hear another car creep up from behind and roll its tires onto the cobbled paving of the alley. He turned with eyes as big as saucers.

Both of the cars we closer now, both of the booming engines deafening him. After a minute of pause, John heard the gritty shifting of dust being thrown behind the cars and the wheels screeching as they shot forward at the rhythm guitarist, who managed to duck into another smaller alleyway to his right where the vehicles couldn't fit, and were both left watching after him, honking their horns in defeat.

... ... ...

He heard the light "tap" of the man's head against the window. His two grey eyes looked back at John Lennon through the mirror and he called out when the man mumbled something under his breath.

"Is everything alright back there, sir?" Then he saw the musician's lids pop open and the haunting orbs burn back into his sullenly.

"Fuckin' dandy. What was Paul sayin' to you?" Mr Lennon asked in a cold voice.

The chauffeur raised his eyebrow. "I beg your pardon?"

John snarled his lips a little. "You were talkin' to Paul; what did he say to you?"

The driver's fingers gripped the steering wheel tighter, as if to steady himself from the impending wrath John Lennon would release on him. "He said to drop you back home... He asked me to keep an eye on you also, in case you needed anything."

The other man rolled his eyes at that. "More like he wants you to baby sit me so I don't hurt me'self. I'm a grown fuckin' man, you know." Then, he turned his head back to the window.

Before he could Stop himself, the chauffeur spoke again. "I know, Mr Lennon, but it's Mr McCartney's orders-"

John's wild eyes snapped back to look at him. They burnt with a manic fire he had never seen before. "Oh? And Mr fuckin' McCartney thinks 'e can just _order_ me about does 'e? We'll see about that."

The chauffeur new he had put his foot in his mouth and remained silent until they reached some traffic lights and rolled to a stop. He was just about to offer going to get something to eat, when he saw the musician throw open the car door and zip out, dodging a cyclist like a cat in the middle of a busy motorway. He yelled out, "John, stop!" but he was certain the rhythm guitarist couldn't hear him. Even if he did, the driver thought, he wouldn't have stopped anyway.

After the lights had changed back so he could move on, the man quickly pulled over to the side of the road and ran to a telephone box with lightning heels and shaking fingers.

There was only one person he thought of to call.

... ... ...

They were after him. They were trying to murder him. He had to get out of here.

But where could he go? The club was so far away, and it would take too long to get back to the house without them finding him and killing him in the process. Unless he made it back to the chauffeur, there was no way John would make it anywhere alive.

Suddenly, as he rounded another corner, he heard a gasp. His brown eyes met a pair of shocked hazel and suddenly he approached with arms outstretched. The figure hugged him back over-enthusiastically and squealed. John smelt the lingering scent of women's perfume.

"Paul?" He mumbled into the shoulder holding him tight with a confused tone.

Finally the person released him and John found himself staring back at a grinning, young lady with a long set of brown curls dancing in the breeze. She looked to be in euphoria.

"Is Paul with you!?" She yelped, "What about George? Or Ringo!"

John blinked in surprise. "You aren't Paul," he spat.

She sighed. "Oh, I wish, but at least I got a hug from my favourite Beatle," she went back for another embrace and John tried to push her away. "Wait 'till I tell my friends about this!"

"Where's Paulie," it came out as a confused mumble, like John was speaking to himself rather than asking the question to the woman. Suddenly it was all a blur, and all the rhythm guitarist could remember was kissing someone and something about a fashion show. "I... I can't 'member,"

The woman's hazel eyes pooled with concern and understanding for a moment. "Oh that's right: you have all that amnesia from the car crash. Maybe we should call the police to find Paul."

"Car... crash... I was in a crash?" John's eyes squinted in disbelief and partly from straining his sight in the darkness to look at the girl.

She nodded. "Or, at least, you were knocked down by one. A car, that is."

"A car," he breathed, hearing the screech of tires and the angry head lamps chasing him. He watched her face grow worried.

"Are you feeling alright, John? You look a bit mad,"

The horn of the car was carried through the wind and muffled by his screams.

... ... ...

"He _what_!?"

"He took off, Mr McCartney. He opened the door and he ran. I couldn't go after him because I was still in traffic. I'm terribly sorry-"

"Sorry doesn't cut it; he's out there on 'is own and he's got fuckin' brain damage. He doesn't 'ardly know what he's doin'. Knowin' John he's probably halfway to Birmingham by now... bloody 'ell." The chauffeur heard Paul sigh down the phone and speak again. "We'll 'ave to send out a search party, call the Old Bill to be on the lookout too. We 'ave to find John."

The driver twisted his face in scepticism. "The police? Are you sure they'll appeal to look for him in such short notice?"

"We're The Beatles; they have to listen to us."

The man heard a 'click' as the receiver was put down on the other end.

... ... ...

It all happened so fast. Rita Winters was coming back from her job at the restaurant only down the street when she turned into an alley to cut off a few minutes from her journey and bumped into John Lennon. He gave her a hug out of nowhere and he reeked of cigarettes and his clothes were cold to the touch but she didn't mind: she was hugging a Beatle.

Then, after a few distant honks of a car horn, he turned back to her and screamed his heart out. She could feel his strong hands grip her shoulders too tightly, almost to the point where it hurt, and shake her back and fourth saying that someone was trying to kill him.

She remembered reading a newspaper article about him.

**'BEATLE JOHN SUFFERS BREAKDOWN'**

Maybe it was all true. Maybe John Lennon was a madman; maybe the horns were from white vans going to take him away to be locked up somewhere; maybe she could get a reward for bringing him in.

Rita, despite being throttled by a panic-stricken Beatle, smiled to herself. She gripped the strap of her purse in a fist and swung the bag with all her might and hit John Lennon square in the jaw. He tumbled to the ground, utterly perplexed.

The rain began to pour as he stared up at her with scared, brown eyes.

"Help! Help! I have John Lennon here, come quickly!" She yelled out to the darkness. The raindrops felt like knives against John's skin as he began to scoot himself back along the floor and try to scramble away, but she hit him on the head again, this time twice as hard.

John felt a bevy of black dots explode in front of his eyes, the rain howling in his face. The woman continued to shriek out about the Beatle being injured and mad and lost but, when she turned to whack him again, John's hand caught the bag in mid-swing and he tugged her down with him, landing hard on the cobblestones with a thud and a groan.

The rhythm guitarist clambered unlawfully onto her torso and straddled her, bringing back a hand and whipping her around the face. She yelped from the blow and John slapped her again. In the darkness, John could see a steady stem of blood trickle down her nose, and, when he hit her again, he managed to get some of it on his crisp shirt soaking through with crimson and rain.

"Get off me! Somebody help!"

John huffed, "No one's gonna hear ya, sweetheart," and hit her again. He brought his lips close to her ear and bit down harshly, licking her neck with a pointed tongue. The rhythm guitarist suddenly caught his hands moving up to her breasts in the heat of the moment but he stopped himself with a shudder, and clambered off quickly.

"Oh my God," he whispered, looking down at the woman with a busted lip and a bleeding nose. He saw the rouge splatters on his wet shirt and blood running through his fingers like the rain itself. "I'm so sorry," he lifted her upper body and used his lap as a cushion for her to lean on while he wept. "What have I done!?"

She looked up at him through the rain and moaned. "It's alright... I-I'm fine. I'm sorry for hitting you too." She gasped when John leaned down and kissed her gently on the lips.

"Come with us, Mr Lennon,"

The musician's head whipped up to the voice speaking above him. It was a policeman, and behind him was a shopping wet Paul looking horrified. The bassist approached John and lifted him up by his arms, holding him tightly and embracing him.

"Don't you ever fucking run away again," he hissed and buried his head into John's damp collar bone.

The policeman knelt over the lady and helped her to her feet. She said, "I was mugged and this man here scared off the attacker and stayed by my side." She looked at John with earnest and guilt. "I'd like to thank him properly." Paul let John break off the hug and she wrapped her arms around his waist and whispered in his ear. "I forgive you," then, she was escorted through the alley by the policeman as Paul led John back to the car.

They climbed inside, the same chauffeur as before looking back at them with sad eyes. "Good to see you back, Mr Lennon." Then, they began the drive back to the house. John was shivering.

Paul watched him with anger in his hazel orbs, as wide and doe as the woman's. "What the fuck is wrong with you, John Winston Lennon." His plump lips reared back into a growl. "You've disobeyed me too many times. I'm not letting you leave my, George's, or Ringo's sight, you understand. You can't keep doing this. Look at you: you're soaked right through to the skin, and... you're covered in blood." His tone softened slightly at the last word.

John's heavy eyes were glued to his shoes. "They were after me,"

"Who was after you?"

"The... cars. They were tryin' to knock me down, like before, they were tryin' to kill me."

Paul exchanged a glance with the chauffeur.

"Those were delivery vans, John."

"What?"

Paul shuffled closer to his friend. "That's how we found you; we were askin' all the people we came across to see if they'd seen you and we asked these two van drivers and they said you were just standin' in the middle of the drive screamin' at them. Then, you ran off. They were delivering apples, John." He gently touched John's shoulder in worry. "There were no cars."

John Lennon watched Paul's doe eyes darken in sadness. "It wasn't real? Nothin' is real?"

Paul shook his head. "Did you take your pill this morning?"

John nodded. Paul kissed his cheek gently, in a brotherly way.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

... ... ...

**(Hello, long time, no update. How was this chapter? Good? Bad?**

**Also, just to clarify, the hallucinations and psychosis John experienced in this chapter are real symptoms of a traumatic brain injury and they do occur in most cases. Just thought I'd tell you so you wouldn't be confused.**

**So, yeah! What did you think? Please, please, please leave me a review telling me. I appreciate every single comment I get. I love you all and thank you for taking the time to read this. See you soon!)**


	12. Hypothermia

Paul sighed. He looked over at the rhythm guitarist in the living room from where he stood in the kitchen and poured the rest of the Bourbon into the small glass. Finally, sipping some hesitantly, he made his way back into the comfortable but quiet sitting room, groaning as he sat himself on a chair opposite John on the sofa.

"We were worried sick about you," Paul started, breaking the silence. John continued to stare out into the dark street outside the window. His eyes appeared foggy and swollen from crying. "Ringo was off 'is bloody 'ead; he was going to call Brian but I stopped 'im... we have enough troubles on our plate, we don't need to be addin' more by gettin' him involved."

Paul took another gulp of the whiskey and set it down on the small coffee table in front of him. He rested his elbows on his knees and put his head in his hands. After a moment of quiet, Paul peered over his fingers at John. "What were you doin' with that bird, anyway?"

"What bird?"

"Don't be soft," the bassist crooned, squinting his eyes slightly in frustration, "you know exactly which lass I'm talkin' about: the one you were hoverin' over in the middle of the bloody street."

John finally steered the direction of his eyes over to the bassist. He had a mouth like a firm line and it drew back into a snarl when he spoke. "She told you what happened,"

"You've got blood all over you-"

"I don't wanna talk about it!" John snapped, his booming voice flooding though every crevice in the house. The rhythm guitarist's scowl soon melted into a deep grimace. He fiddled with his crimson stained fingers like a child. His stringy, auburn hair, still slightly damp from the rain, hung low over his dark eyes like a curtain. "It's been a long fucking day, Paul." He murmured, "I don't wanna talk about it." His tone dripped with sadness. "Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going for a wash."

Then, the rhythm guitarist got up and left the room. Paul couldn't hold in the sob that shook through his chest like a rattling thunder, crying into his glass of whiskey.

... ... ...

The water filled the empty bath tub quickly. The wind and the rain from outside the window howled like an animal. He got up from the side and closed it as it sent a cold chill coursing through the small bathroom like the blood through his veins. John's fingers trembled as he unbuttoned his shirt and slid off his trousers and underwear.

The water, he noticed as he stepped into the tub, was as cold as a bitter January morning. It sent shivers up and down his spine and goosebumps spreading like wildfire on his skin. Yet, he ignored the feeling of his blood turning icy and sat back into the water.

John looked up at the bathroom ceiling with hazy eyes. The rain threw itself against the window like it was trying to break in and get at him.

'Like the cars,' he thought.

He was an intelligent man. Paul was simply lying to him; John may have been brain damaged but he was certainly not delusional. It was all a scheme, that's what it was, to get him to surrender his position as Top Beatle.

He nodded to himself. That was it. It was all one, big plot to try and drive him mad: but John Lennon wasn't blind. If they thought they could get rid of him that easily, they had another thing coming.

John mumbled to himself as his eyelids drooped and he sunk deeper into the freezing water.

... ... ...

"Brian, I'm _telling_ you, he isn't right," Ringo hissed into the phone, "he ran off on his own, like a bloody caged dog." He twisted the phone cable nervously in his fingers. "...Well I don't know what else we can do... yeah... He's already on bloody anti-depressants, Eppy, it's already come to that... admit him?... to a what?... a hospital?" The drummer's concerned, blue orbs widened considerably. "I don't know if 'e's that bad, Bri... yes, I 'ave read the paper's... well who would you rather believe the word of? Me or some bloody half-witted journalist?"

Richard carried the phone over to his bedroom door and peered out into the hallway. "Well right now, Eppy, I'm not even 'sposed to be on the phone to ye'... Paul told me not to call but I felt like I had to: John is our responsibility too, not just his... well alrigh', Brian, I've gotta go... yes, I know... okay... take care now, I'll see you soon... You too, bye." Ringo sighed as he put the receiver back onto the cradle.

What the fuck had happened?

The drummer carried his weary body over to the bed and started unlacing his shoes, kicking them off into the corner of the room and laying on top of the sheets with his arms behind his head and his ankles resting over each other. His mind swam but he was far too tired to think right now. So he closed his blue eyes, and sunk further and further into the mattress below him like it was quicksand, welcoming the warm, comforting grip sleep had on him all of a sudden. Ringo was at the mercy of unconsciousness, teetering on the edge of slumber and lucidity. That's why it was so difficult to fight his way out of the haze when he heard the distinct sound of a hollow voice and banging.

"What the..." He mumbled heavily, peeling open his orbs and blinking away the sleep. He scrubbed a hand down his face and sat up suddenly when he heard clearer.

"John... You alright in there? Speak to me."

It was George.

Ringo threw himself out of bed and scrambled over to the bathroom door, where the lead guitarist shifted nervously on the balls of his feet. He knocked again tentatively, noticing the drummer join his side.

"Where's Paul?" Richard murmured to George. The younger man shrugged and knocked again.

"Open up, John, you've been in there for a while, mate." His thick Scouse accent shook through the air. Silence met the two men standing at the bathroom door and George turned to the drummer anxiously. "I'm gonna get Paul," he said quietly and hurried down the stairs.

When the lead guitarist sauntered into the living room, he found Paul idly plucking his bass and staring at the carpet with a dull look in his eye.

"Paul?"

No response.

"Oh fuckin' hell not you too," he muttered and stepped closer. His feet hit against something as he walked and he looked down to see the bottle of Bourbon that was supposed to be kept in the kitchen cupboard: empty. He looked up. "Are you drunk?"

Paul, it seemed, had only just noticed George in the room. He gave a breezy smile. "G-Georgie," he slurred, dropping the bass guitar onto the carpet haphazardly as he reached out his arms in a hugging motion. George stayed in his spot a few inches away. "Come on, _kid_, give ya' brother a hug."

The lead guitarist sighed. "John's locked himself in the bathroom... _again_."

Something appeared to click in the bassist's mind- though it took a few delayed seconds to process- and he heaved himself up from the sofa, then promptly stumbled back down again. His eyes widened.

"Wow, I'm fuckin' hammered,"

Suddenly, Ringo's distressed voice carried down the stairs and into the living room.

"John! Fuckin' answer me!"

George hadn't heard him so panicked since the very day John was ran over. He glanced at the stumbling bassist once more but raced up the stairs without waiting for him; he was only going to slow George down and John could be in danger.

When the youngest arrived at the top of the stairs, he saw Ringo hammer his fist hard on the door and George thought it would fly off the hinges by sheer force. The drummer stepped back.

"What are you doing?" George asked with a voice bordering on hysteria.

Ringo's blue eyes scared George: they looked manic.

"I'm gonna break it down." He shuddered, and charged at the door. He lifted his foot out quickly, high enough to reach the handle, and kicked powerfully. The door crashed open and the drummer tumbled in, George behind him.

John looked dead.

His skin held a blue tinge, so pale it looked fresh from the grave. His lips were thin and azure, same with the tips of his ears, fingers, and toes. He was naked and unmoving in the bath tub.

Ringo had to bite his tongue so he didn't scream: he drew blood.

At the speed of light, the drummer had the scarily feeble-looking John Lennon in his arms and was heaving him out of the tub with a hasty gentleness. George could do nothing but stare and begin to cry.

"Stay with me, Johnny, I've got you," Ringo muttered. It was as though he was reassuring himself rather than the trembling man in his arms, suddenly awake but not saying a word. The drummer smoothed his wet hair and quickly wrapped a towel around him, clutching him. He looked deep into the dark, unblinking eyes of the rhythm guitarist, so deep he thought he would drown himself. "I've got you, John. You're safe and sound."

George couldn't stop the tears from falling, standing at the busted door and quaking with fear. He heard clumsy footsteps behind him traipsing up the stairs. Paul.

The bassist appeared in the doorway and let out a cry. He skidded past George and next to John on the floor. The silent man was shivering violently, porcelain skin still pallid and a frightening alabaster colour.

Ringo's deep voice spoke again. His arms were still wrapped around John's shoulders gently. "We need to get him somewhere warm; get some hot fluid into him. He's freezin' to the touch."

Paul nestled John's face with a shaking hand, lips parted in sorrow. He trailed his fingers down the rhythm guitarist's cheeks but received no reaction. John was staring at Ringo like his life depended on it. Paul felt an unreasonable pang of envy strike him but he ignored it quickly and nodded, helping the sopping wet Ringo pull John up from the floor and guide him into his bedroom.

The auburn-haired man stumbled ungracefully, clutching tight to the drummer and leaning on Paul for support. Every now and again he would mumble something indistinguishable.

'_It must be from the cold_,' Ringo thought, '_poor bloke is shakin' like a leaf._'

When they finally made it to the bed, Richard and Paul set down the rhythm guitarist on the sheets and tucked him under the cover. His blue lips juttered out when Ringo went to leave the room for a minute.

"N-No... s-stay, Rhino... stay..." He reached out a quivering hand.

Ringo exchanged a sad glance with Paul, who was oddly silent. Was John regressing? Rhino? They'd come so far. The drummer ambled over to the bed and wrapped his ringed fingers softly around John's.

"I'm gonna get you a cup of tea, love. I'll be right back. Paul is here, right next to you, he'll look after you." Richard smiled. He made his voice low and calm like he was talking to a little kid; it certainty felt like he was.

"P... Paul?"

Ringo pointed over to the bassist. "Here he is: he's right here to watch over ye', John. I'll be two ticks." The eldest quickly scampered down the stairs, leaving John and Paul alone. George had disappeared somewhere, probably to weep by himself. Someone would have to talk to him later.

John stared up at the ceiling. Paul, the weight of the alcohol pushing down on his emotions, sobbed suddenly. John's brown eyes never moved.

The bassist leaned closer to the bed. "I'm so sorry, John. This is all my fault: all of it. If I had just made you come inside, you never would have been hit by that... that..." He couldn't bear to say the word. It sound dirty all of a sudden. "If I had just let you kiss me, maybe you wouldn't have run off, if I hadn't shouted, maybe you wouldn't have done this to yourself." He pressed John's cold hand against his chin and, weeping into it, he said. "I'm sorry. It's all my fault."

John listened intently, a painful lump swelling in his throat and tears forming in his eyes. He didn't dare speak; he wasn't ready.

"The fuckin' pills aren't doin' much either," Paul sighed. He was right: John felt even lower than he had before he started taking the medication. It was as if the only things they were doing were making him more absent-minded. It was like John was on a different planet entirely sometimes.

Paul touched John's face again, "If I had just let you kiss me..." Then, clumsily leaning over the older man, he pressed his lips against John's.

It felt _odd_.

The bassist broke off the one-way kiss and looked over at the open door with worry. He began to breathe in laboured fashion as he clambered over John's naked, trembling form under the sheets and rolled onto the bed beside him. Shuffling under the quilt, Paul wrapped his arms around the rhythm guitarist's waist and clutched gently but firmly.

His whiskey-stained breath made John silently grimace. "I love you, John. I'll n-never leave you again."

Why was John ignoring him?

When he felt the rhythm guitarist shiver violently beneath his touch, he crawled in tighter and gingerly rested his head against John's bare collarbone and they both stared up at the eggshell ceiling like they were watching stars. He planted another kiss on John's neck but it felt too foreign and unnatural.

"Paulie," John whispered. The bassist looked up from his awkward position, half-hugging John's chest like a cat clawing up a tree. "Do you like me?"

Paul frowned. "Of course-"

"Do you want me out of the band?" The older of the two men asked coarsely. His voice wobbled with cold.

"No, John! Why would you ask such a thing? You're me best mate." Paul slurred.

"The Quarrymen," John sounded on the verge of tears, "won't be able go anywhere with me like this; we'll never make it."

Paul didn't say anything after that.

... ... ...

**(Hello! I'm back again, here to bring you another chapter. How did you find it? Good? Bad? Poor Johnny: I love being mean. It does break my heart, though. A review might fix it! If not for me, do it for poor old Johnny, will you? I really appreciate every single comment I get.**

**If you ever want to chat or collaborate or send me a request, drop me a PM! Thank so much for reading. I'll see you soon.**

**Love, omgringo.)**


	13. Broken Bass, Broken Mind

The bassist sat in the corner of the room; curled upon a chair with unblinking eyes, he stared at the man in the bed a few inches away. His eyes were dark, and the rings below them even darker; periodically his eyelids would droop downwards, only to have them snap wide open again, feigning alertness. He was tired as hell, weary with the burden of long-closed eyes; a night of restless sleep stood ahead of him.

Paul rhythmically picked at the callous skin on his trembling fingers, until finally he flicked his eyes away from John and saw that he had drew blood. He wiped it away on his shirt and went back to watching the sleeping Lennon.

It was three in the morning. The bassist had been watching John for two hours. No one even knew he was in here.

Paul always got a little... "_odd_" when he was tipsy. His sobriety had already started to return but he was still drunk as a sailor. He rubbed his left eye lazily and yawned. Maybe another bottle of no-named alcohol would let him sleep. The bassist stood clumsily from the creaky chair and stumbled down the dark hallway and downstairs, shortly arriving in the kitchen. He giggled when he knocked over a stool on the way to the cupboard and jumped when the clash echoed around the kitchen like a thunder storm.

"Let's see, let's see…" he mumbled slowly. His fingers brushed past glasses and other fragile china till he felt the thing he was looking for right at the back. "Here we are," he smiled as he pulled out two bottles of red wine. They were Brian's. Paul shrugged: Brian wouldn't mind.

Paul, one bottle in each hand, clambered up the stairs and back into John's room. His drunken voice was quiet and slandered, "A little red to drown our sorrows, eh Johnny?" Then he sat back on his chair and unscrewed the cap gently. He took as swig and winced. Then, after sitting silently for a minute thinking, he crept over to John in the bed and breathed. Slowly, the rhythm guitarist's hazy eyes peeled open and stared up at the younger man.

"P...Paul?"

The younger man shifted on the balls of his feet, slowly crouching down on his knees 'til he was eye level with John and he put the bottles on the ground and touched the rhythm guitarist's face lightly.

"How are you feeling?"

"I'm tired," John said, "how long have you been here?"

Paul didn't answer. He began to stroke John's hair like he was petting an animal. "I don't want to leave you alone ever again," he slurred.

John's eyes began to droop under Paul's soft caress. The bassist collected one of the bottles and uncapped the lid, heaving back a swig. John's breathing grew deep and he curled under Paul's touch, warm and safe. Paul felt tears spring to his eyes.

"I love you so fucking much, Lennon," he whispered. Soon he found himself climbing over the older man and clambering into bed next to him once again. He took another sip and soon fell asleep with his hand resting on John's head and the other clutching the bottle.

**... ... ...**

"Paul?" He felt something shake his shoulder and heard a sigh as his eyes peeled open. "You awake, mate?"

He groaned, "Now I am... What time is it?"

The two bloodshot hazel orbs finally adjusted to the light and took in the full view of the lead guitarist's face staring right at him. The brown eyes that drilled through his own were enough to sober him immediately.

"It's 11 o'clock," George answered, sitting himself on the bed.

The bed: Paul suddenly realised he wasn't in his own. "Where's John?" He started to sit up but George's strong hand pushed him down on the mattress gently.

"'E's with Ringo makin' breakfast. You might wanna take it easy; you look rough. Bad night?"

"The worst," Paul sighed as he scrubbed a hand through his unruly, dark hair. "I'm too hungover for this shit..."

The younger man nodded sympathetically. "I can't blame you... yesterday was a bloody disaster. I 'aven't slept; I feel like gettin' merry me'self just to get some decent kip."

Paul gave a small smile despite feeling like utter shit. His stomach gave a whirl and he leaned over swiftly, aimed his thumping head over the waste bin, and promptly vomited. He could hear George grimace beside him and put a comforting hand on his back.

"You don't 'andle your drink well, Paulie,"

Paul nodded and wiped the last bit of bile hanging off the side of his chin. He just wanted to sleep and wake up to how it was before.

_Why did John have to step out in front of that fucking car!?_

"I don't know why, Paul, he just did... we can't change what 'appened."

Had Paul spoken out loud?

The young guitarist continued sadly. "We all wish it never happened like that. We just have to keep moving or we'll never survive. John needs us. I can't even imagine 'ow 'e's feelin' about all this."

The two men heard the clatter of frying pans drifting from up the stairs like gunfire. George's head whipped around faster than a bullet and suddenly he was halfway across the room. He glanced back at Paul in the bed.

"You get some rest; we've got 'im. I'll wake you up if he wants you."

Then, he was out the door and the room fell silent. Paul pushed the hair out of his eyes, sticky from perspiration, and quickly dropped back into restless slumber.

**... ... ...**

"Bloody 'ell, John, you'll end up burning the house down,"

"I was only makin' toast... Ri..."

"...Ringo?"

"Ringo."

When George sauntered into the kitchen, Ringo and John both turned to look at him. The drummer smiled shortly and went back to popping the bread out of the toaster before it could burn. John continued to stare.

"How's brekkie goin', lads?" The youngest asked in a half-hearted chipper tone. He rested his two elbows on the counter and looked back at John.

Ringo murmured, "Gear. Want coffee?"

George replied, "A tea would be lovely, ta Ring."

As the drummer occupied himself with the breakfast tasks, the rhythm guitarist came round the counter of kitchen and stood next to George. Much to the lead guitarist's surprise, he felt John rest a hand on his shoulder.

His voice held a slight odour of coffee and medication. "Why were you crying yesterday?" He asked gently.

George was a little taken back, "Can't you remember, John?"

John frowned.

"In the bath? You were unconscious, nearly bloody _froze_ to death."

"In the bath? I was outside... I remember." The older man assured. He had a slightly desperate look in his dark, sleep deprived eyes. His voice raising slowly in volume attracted the attention of Ringo setting down the plate of bacon and eggs on the side.

George shook his head. "No you weren't, John-"

"Are you bloody tellin' me what I do and don't know, _Harrison_? I remember."

"John," Ringo called quietly, as if to try and stop the oncoming meltdown he knew was about to commence.

But John continued. "The woman hit me and I... I hit her-"

"You hit a woman, John?" George repeated, mouth agape in slight shock.

"Stop it," the drummer warned, edging closer. He could see this ending badly and no one was listening to him. "George, John, stop it."

"She hit me first-"

"What the bloody 'ell's the matter with you, Lennon?"

"_George_," Ringo snapped like an angry parent.

"She tried to kill me... they tried to kill me-"

"Whom? Did you hit them too!"

The rhythm guitarist looked panicked all of a sudden. He raked a hand through his hair and, when Ringo tried to touch him gently from across the counter, he yelped wildly.

"Come on, mate, it's not worth worrying over-" Ringo sighed.

"Those fuckin' _cars_! What do they want with me; what have I done!?" John was now over the other side of the room. He had a tear streamed face and his fists twitched and trembled by his waist. The two other men stood silent in shock both behind the kitchen counter now- almost as if for protection- and they watched John rage. His voice was loud and angry with hysteria; he had wide eyes that burned back at the other men like they were complete strangers to him. He said it over and over again:

"The _cars_,"

It was mantra-like, psychotic, almost. John paced back and fourth like a hungry tiger until he snapped again and screamed. It ricocheted around the silent room and shook the house like an earthquake. His tense hands found Paul's idle bass guitar resting against the sofa.

"John, _no_!" George yelled but it was too late.

The bass came down on the carpet with a thud. John's body rippled with rage-fuelled strength under his dressing gown as he brought down the instrument again and again like it was a simple mallet hammering in a nail, until finally the neck snapped and the bass guitar lay in two pieces on the floor.

John's laboured breathing turned into sobs. Slowly, a figure emerged from the doorway and all but tackled the older man to the floor. The two men landed on the carpet with a groan. John flailed beneath Paul's hold.

His hazel eyes glanced up at George in haste. "Call Doctor Robert. Now."

**... ... ...**

"I've administered a light sedative. He shouldn't be asleep but he may feel drowsy and confused for a while, but calm."

Brian Epstein, Paul, and the doctor closed John's bedroom door quietly and made their way downstairs into the living room. They were joined by Ringo and George, waiting anxiously.

"Why did this happen, Doctor?" The manager asked. He looked beyond rundown. His blue eyes were bloodshot and heavy, his skin looked to be limp and sagging slightly, his usually neat hair was without its normal, healthy sheen and life.

"A traumatic brain injury can bring on further complications, including this slight psychotic episode John suffered-"

The drummer piped up and suddenly all eyes were on him. "Well, on the back of this 'ere bottle," he held up the medication tube, "it says: 'side effects may include mania'. Could it be this that's causin' the problem?"

Paul had a feisty tone, "You mean you've been givin' him pills that makes 'im worse?"

Doctor Robert stuttered, "No, of course not, Mr McCartney. Everyone reacts differently to medication; how was I supposed to know John would suffer psychosis because of it. These delusions seem to stem further from the Phenelzine. I'm not a psychiatrist but I could arrange one to visit John from home if you feel it's necessary."

The Beatles and Brian exchanged a glance. Then, Brian nodded.

"Very well,"

**... ... ...**

The door creaked open and John's foggy head turned to the noise.

"Hello, Lennon," Paul smiled sadly.

John smiled slightly in return. He looked rather comfortable and relaxed in his bed and Paul envied his stress-free, drug-induced demeanour for a minute before sitting just beside the lump under the cover that was John's feet.

"Brian's here to see you," he turned his head and the manager entered and sat on the other side of the mattress so he could reach John's loose hand in his own.

"John," Brian began, "we thought that it would be good to get someone you can talk to about your... worries: a psychiatrist. Is that alright with you?"

"Psych'trist?" Lennon slurred.

"Yes, John. Just until you start to feel well again. Do you feel okay about someone coming here?"

Paul felt a tight knot form in his throat as John nodded. It hurt just to breathe. His eyes watered but he refused to cry again.

"Good lad," Brian smiled. Paul saw that his eyes were glassy too. "Well I'll let you relax, John." The manager swiftly left the room.

John's head bobbed in Paul's direction. "Am I mad, Paulie?"

Paul wiped a lone tear that dribbled down his cheek and he smiled.

"Of course you aren't mad, John,"

**... ... ...**

**(Hello friends, how are you? I'm sorry for the gap in updating; I've been very busy with school and Christmas preparations and recently I've been quite ill too. Also, my older sister was admitted to hospital due to illness so that's also been on my mind. But enough about me!**

**How was this chapter? Poor John. Nothing is going right for him. Maybe this psychiatrist will be good for him but only time will tell...**

**Thank you so much for sticking with me and reading this chapter! Please leave a review telling me what you thought. :)**

**See you soon.)**


	14. The Radio Sang Sweetly

"It's only bloody mid-day and I'm already exhausted," Paul sighed into his hands. He was on the couch with the broken Hofner in his lap like it was his child. He went to clutch the broken neck and busted strings with gentle fingers but felt far too disconnected to even reach it in his grasp so he kept his palms covering his sullen eyes, drooping like dying flowers in the winter.

Brian told him calmly, "We'll get you another bass in no time, Paul." He sat across from the dark-haired musician with stunning posture, despite feeling heavier than a lead balloon. He watched a soap-like hand snap away from the bassist's face like it was pulling away from the clutches of a madman. His doe orbs weighed more than the Earth itself.

"It's not about a fucking instrument, Brian," his voice held a bite and a low danger to it, "it's about John,"

"It's always going to be about John," the manager replied coolly. His fingers gripped at his kneecaps tightly, as if he were squeezing all the stress out of his brain and into his finger tips. His eyes were downcast and his face appeared ashen. "Whether he is well or not, it will always be about John."

Paul eyed his manager for a minute. He placed the broken instrument down beside him on the sofa and, after a moment of quiet, only the tick of the clock speaking for them, Paul's lips parted. His voice was just above a whisper. "You know John hit a woman, Bri," he said and Brian nodded. "George told me that. He fucking hit someone. He wasn't protecting her from anyone, he was hurting her. And I was there! I saw him covered in... in..."

The bassist's watery, hazel eyes met with rippling blue.

Paul whispered. "Blood,"

"Has John tried writing since... since the accident?"

McCartney shrugged, "How should I know? Maybe he can't even fucking write anymore, how do we know for certain he can still do that?" Paul sighed, face buried in hands once again. "I don't know, Eppy; I don't know what to do anymore."

Brian Epstein made a noise in his throat. "Well, Doctor Robert has arranged for a therapist to visit. You never know, Paul, maybe this is what John needs. Maybe you could benefit from this too." He swallowed and fiddled with his cuff links before speaking again. "Due to the success of A Hard Day's Night, George Martin and I think it would be worth trying to produce one more album for this year-"

"An album!? In John's condition? Look, Eppy, we're already tired enough as it is."

"We understand the circumstances, Paul, but there is high demand for new records. Perhaps this would be an ample opportunity to produce some covers of you and the boys' favourite artists."

Paul wanted to scream. A new album? This was madness. There was no way they could pull that off. John couldn't even remember how to play the guitar!

"Brian," the bassist objected, "John can barely play; he can't remember."

The manager's blue eyes grew sad.

"Just... think about it, Paul."

Paul's orbs watched from over the tips of his fingers as the manager nodded shortly to himself and got up from the chair. "I'm going to say goodbye to John and then I'll be on my way, Paul. Remember to give him the sleeping pills tonight like Doctor Robert said."

"Alrigh',"

Footsteps travelled across the carpet and slowly faded up the stairs. Paul took one last glance at the Hofner and shook his head. He got up from the sofa and ambled to the kitchen and went out the door leading to the garden.

The grass was starting to grow quite high, a while since its last mowing. A narrow, overgrown path lead up to a small shed in the short distance. There were looming hedges standing either side of the garden, blooming with flowers and ivory. It was a wild garden, and Paul almost didn't spot George mulling in the corner with a loose daisy in his hands.

"Alright, George," the bassist greeted and took out a cigarette, placing it teetering between his lips.

George looked back at Paul with squinted eyes from the sun. He had a rather sullen expression, whether it was from this morning's events or the glaring light Paul didn't know. "Y'alright, Paul," he greeted back. His brown orbs panned back over the sight of the lush, green garden and stayed.

Paul lit his smoke. "It's been shit, hasn't it?" He didn't even want to think about the idea of producing a new album, let alone mention it to the younger man.

"Yeah," George replied. He ran his gentle fingers over the petals of the pink-edged daisy.

"What do you think about this therapist then?" The bassist asked as he blew out a puff of grey smoke. It floated lazily in the light breeze and vanished.

The young guitarist dipped is head like he was trying to avoid something. "Maybe it'll do 'im some good... but I doubt it." His tone dripped with melancholy. "I don't think 'e'll ever be the same."

The cogs whirred in Paul's mind and he saw the scene play out like a film reel. Doctor Robert's sharp, grey eyes were speckled with frustration, empathy, despair. His lips moved out of time to his voice.

_"I don't quite think you know how serious John's condition is. The amnesia will be temporary but the brain trauma he has experienced is permanent. He's never going to be the same, you must realise that."_

Never be the same.

Paul swallowed the lump in his throat as he took another drag.

**... ... ...**

John was now seated at the kitchen table. He was still in his dressing gown and pyjamas, although Paul didn't see why he shouldn't have been in anything else because essentially the man had been almost completely comatose the whole afternoon. He would sit and stare and occasionally mumble something to the walls like they would converse back with him but the conversation never lasted more than a few seconds and then he would fall silent again.

Paul placed down a mug of tea in front of the rhythm guitarist. His brown eyes were now sorrowful but still appeared to be vacant. Paul squirmed and decided that the deafening silence in the household would appreciate some music; he clicked on the radio on the counter beside him.

After a moment of white noise and static, the air was filled with the last few notes of Elvis' 'Kiss Me Quick' and the opening guitar riff to 'I Wanna Hold Your Hand' sprang to life on the radio straight after. Paul ceased fiddling with the dial and sat down opposite John nursing his own cup of tea.

Paul had to smile; he still wasn't quite used to hearing himself on the radio. It was a brief moment of happiness before John's grumbles shuddered through his thoughts like a car slamming into a wall. The bassist watched John's brow furrow tightly and his mouth draw back into a snarl. Past the irritated expression, Paul noticed a glimmering shimmer of clarity wade into the deep, dark pools in his friend's eyes. He looked more awake than he had been in days.

But the clarity, Paul quickly realised, was more frightening than he first thought. When John's voice blared from the radio, the man in the chair stared at the contraption in almost horrified shock. The bassist watched nervously as John's wide, brown eyes slowly drifted back to the table and stared. His body remained still.

The radio sang, "_Oh please, say to me,_

_You'll let me be your man._

_And please, say to me,_

_You'll let me hold your hand._"

**SMASH!**

In a blur, the mug of tea was on the floor in pieces, John's hoarse yell ricocheted around the kitchen as the hot liquid pooled on the tiles.

"John!" Paul yelled, quickly throwing out his chair and standing to stare at the man.

John's breath came out in choked gasps, like he struggled just to vocalise what he was feeling. His nostrils were flared, his orbs flickered with the anger Paul was all too familiar with. His fist, the same one he used to launch the cup from the table in the first place, was rattling by his side when he stood and glared at the radio. Due to the remainder of the light sedative still left in his system, John stumbled when he tried to make his way over to the counter while also trying to avoid the hot tea. Paul felt panic flood through him when John grasped the radio in his hands and was about to throw it.

"John, stop!" Paul shrieked, grabbing John by the wrist.

For the first time in a while, John listened. He stared back, almost petrified, into the face of a friend.

"Paulie?" He breathed. John looked down. There was tea all over the ground, a china mug broken into big chunks. He looked up again at Paul's panic-stricken face. "What happened to the floor?"

Paul laughed wearily- a laugh that didn't sound funny at all to John- and leaned in further to the older man's space. He grasped John's shoulders with his hands and whispered. "It doesn't matter John, it doesn't matter." Then, he eased the elder into a hug and clutched him tight. John stared at the radio now back on the counter top and it sang sweetly.

"_And when I touch you I feel happy inside._

_It's such a feeling that my love,_

_I can't hide, I can't hide, I can't hide._"

John closed his eyes and sighed into Paul.

**... ... ...**

Ringo found them in the kitchen.

The radio was on; he could recall the faint tune of 'House Of The Rising Sun' droning out its melody amidst the two men embraced in a tight hug in the middle of the kitchen. Paul's hazel eyes peeked over John's shoulder when he heard Ringo shuffle in from the living room. God knows how long the two men had been standing there like that.

Paul tried to pry John's haggard body from him but found that John simply wouldn't let go.

"Alright, Lennon," Paul wore an embarrassed smile when he saw Ringo watching them, "that's enough now, let me clean up the tea." After a few more grunts, the older man finally let go but looked a little lost without a pair of arms wrapped around him, like a small child left alone in a supermarket or a store. Ringo eyed John warily.

"'Ow did this 'appen?" The drummer asked Paul, nodding to the mess on the floor. He went to get a cloth from the sink and some paper towels to mop it up with while Paul went about trying to collect the broken mug fragments with a broom.

"It was my fault," John said. He had two dark, downcast eyes: ashamed.

Ringo blinked. "Well... it's alright, as long as you didn't 'urt yourself."

John suddenly stepped forward. "Let me help-"

"No, no, I think it's alright John; it's more of a two man job. Why don't you go and sit in the livin' room, yeah?" Paul suggested gently.

The rhythm guitarist nodded rather solemnly and took refuge in the sitting room. He made his way over to the bay window that gave view to almost the whole street. Outside, he saw a red-headed woman walking leisurely while pushing a pram. John felt a swell of loneliness suddenly rise in his stomach.

He kept his gaze focused on the outside world. "Paul," He called out, loud enough for the bassist to hear.

"Yeah, John?"

John paused, watching the woman with the stroller finally disappear out of sight. "I wanna go out,"

"But you can't go out John; you're not even dressed."

John looked down at himself, pulling his hands out of his dressing gown pockets and staring at them. He almost got lost in the callousness of them, the lines and prints and-

"John?"

He looked up, dark eyes wide.

"I can get dressed,"

Paul sighed. Ringo leaned against the kitchen counter with a cigarette and watched the scene unfold between the two. If he was needed, he would intervene, but for now he was content watching.

"Where do you want to go?" The bassist asked calmly.

John looked around the room. His eyes briefly flickered to Ringo and the drummer gave a small smile. Then, after analysing the carpet beneath his feet, he found the corpse of the broken Hofner idly placed on the couch to his left. He pointed.

"You need a new one,"

The younger man's hazel orbs rested longingly on the bass. "We could always get a new one another day. You've been through a lot today, John, already; why don't you just rest?"

"No, I wanna get outta here." John demanded. Paul felt like he was negotiating with a little kid.

"Maybe another time, alrigh'-"

"No, Paul!" The rhythm guitarist raised his voice so the bassist felt like he needed to bite back a little. He felt his fists clench.

"Flamin' 'ell, John!" Paul stepped forward, slightly discouraged when the older man squirmed and ducked his head like he was avoiding a low-flying object. "Do you remember the last time we let you go out, eh? You nearly fuckin' died, you beat a woman! You're not well, look what you did this mornin'; look at all the destruction you caused even before bloody noon."

John looked at Paul- looked straight into his fucking soul- and felt his eyes start to burn with tears. He fished into his pocket and pulled out a small, crumpled piece of paper, oddly discloloured, like it had been smeared with coffee and specks of blood. He held it out in front of him.

Paul was wary to take it. "What's this?" He asked.

"Song," John answered shortly.

The bassist raised an eyebrow and took the paper from John slowly. With slightly shaking fingers, he unfolded it and read the lines scrawled sloppily. From the messy handwriting, Paul could only assume that this had been written in the dark.

"'I'm a loser'?" Paul mumbled the title before looking at the few misspelled lines John had wrote.

_Sometimes I lagh and act like a clown_

_Under my mask I'm waring a frown_

_My taers are falin like rain from the sky_

_I can't hellp but cry_

The bassist looked up from the paper. He was a little shocked to see how badly the accident had taken on John's spelling. It was almost like a child had wrote this.

"This is... good, John. Maybe we could rework some of the words. Do you have a tune for it?"

It was like John was trying to work out the lyrics for his own song. He took the paper back from Paul and began to sing, stumbling on a few of the words. After gently coming to a stop, the rhythm guitarist looked back up at Paul and Ringo like he was waiting for grave news.

Ringo announced. "I like it,"

The bassist made a noise with his throat and nodded. "Me too, John, that's very good."

"Really?"

Paul stared back into the dark, rippling eyes of the older man and smiled a little. "Yeah, I really do, John; it'd be perfect for the new album."

Ringo gasped. "New album!?" Then, he joined Paul in the living room area and looked at the younger man with shock etched into his tired features. "When was this decided?"

Paul shuffled a little. "Brian said that we should try to produce another album by the end of the year... He said that new records are in high demand."

"Fuckin' 'ell, is he mad? We'll never get one done by then-"

"We can do it."

Paul and Ringo looked at John when his wobbly voice shook.

"We can make an album," he said again.

The bassist sighed. "But you can barely play the guitar John-"

"I'll learn," John said, suddenly determined, "You'll teach me. Let's make a new album. I want to do it, Pete."

"I'm Paul, John, my name's Paul."

"Let's do it. Let's go now. I'll get dressed and tell George."

He dashed upstairs before anyone could take a breath.

Paul looked at Ringo.

"Let's just try, eh? For John."

**... ... ...**

**(Hello! It's been while hasn't it? I'm sorry for the gap; I've been quite busy recently. I hope this long chapter is good for you! What did you think? Please leave a review telling me what you thought, they fuel my writing! Thanks for reading and I'll see you soon!)**


	15. Down The Rabbit Hole

John Lennon looked about the studio with two dark, pensive eyes. His narrow lips were agape in slight wonder: words that he longed to express never spoken, a tongue that remained still despite wanting to emote every little tumbleweed thought that blew across his dusty desert of a mind. The eyes settled on Brian walking through the double doors with Paul hot on his heels.

The two men were lost in a haze as John's orbs drifted over to Ringo sitting behind his drum kit, deflated. He looked awfully tired. His ringed fingers curled around his drum sticks and lightly rolled them back and fourth in his hands. He adjusted the collar of his black turtleneck jumper with a sigh. The blue eyes met with brown, though the drummer made no attempt to smile like he had all the previous times. He only looked sad. And tired. Good God, he looked tired.

The shadow of a man stretched across John's seat and drenched him in darkness. The rhythm guitarist gazed up at the figure in wonder.

"John? Paul was telling me about the song you'd written." Brian's smiling face appeared lower when the manager crouched to eye-level. John could see deep-set bags hanging from his eyes. "Would you like to show me?"

John felt his memories slip out of his reach, like water running through his fingers. "Song?" He frowned. He remembered spilling the tea and suddenly grew sorrowful. "I made a mess, m-my fault."

Brian's blue eyes widened a little in concern. "I beg your pardon? There's no mess here; you were going to show me a new song you came up with. Remember?"

Paul approached, yet he remained silent. John looked up at him and back at the manager. He stuttered. "Well... well, I-I have one, yes, but it ain't no good-"

"Oh, nonsense!" Brian grinned again, a small grin with sombre eyes, "I bet it will be perfect for the new album."

In the corner of the room, Ringo bristled.

Brian flicked his blue eyes in the drummer's direction for a beat and stood. His slightly worried gaze landed back to John and he stared deep in his face.

His voice, his enunciated words, were just above a whisper. "Take your time, John." Then, he glanced at Paul and Ringo once again and disappeared up the stairs and into the control booth where George Martin sat behind the panel.

Paul's voice this time, flooding though the left side of his ear, made him jump. "So what chords, Lennon?"

John blinked. His mind, a plain landscape filled with nothing but sand and heat, a windy, little place where nothing lived and everything died, suddenly vanished. Gone was the desert; only a blank, white, vacuum-like void remained. John struggled to even move his tongue to speak.

"Oh, that's right," the bassist sighed, "you don't know; you don't remember." Then, Paul turned his head to the booth and looked at Brian. He shook his head no and looked back at the rhythm guitarist with those doe, hazel eyes rippling with melancholy. "Maybe we should just teach you a few basic chords first and go along with those."

"Okay," John agreed with a small voice.

Paul dragged a chair from a few yards away and sat himself down opposite John. He grabbed a left-handed acoustic from its stand not far too far away and pulled it into his lap.

"This," he said, positioning his middle and ring finger on the fifth and fourth strings of the second fret, strumming lightly, "is an E minor chord, John; it's one of the easiest to play. Why don't you give it a try?"

The older man put his fingers in position and Paul silently thanked God that he hadn't lost the callousness of his expert fingers or he wouldn't even be able to play at all.

"That's it," Paul gently encouraged, "now just strum downwards."

A little stiffly, John managed to successfully strum along with Paul until the bassist changed to a D chord. John stopped playing, looking at the guitar in bewilderment.

"E minor?"

Paul suddenly felt foolish for moving too quickly. "No, no, I just played a D chord." His small, sad smile faded as he talked. "Maybe you could just sing on this track and George could play the guitar instead." The bassist looked up at the youngest man, who was sitting further away. He had his guitar resting on his lap.

"No, no, I want to do it," John said. He looked determined once again and clumsily placed his fingers on the strings. He strummed repeatedly. "E minor?"

Paul frowned. He listened intently and spoke again. "That sounds like an A7 chord, actually. What do you think, George?"

The young guitarist nodded silently.

When John changed chords again, this time to the D shape he had saw Paul do before, the strings twanged and shook, but Paul could still distinguish a decent sounding chord from that one too. Paul distinguished a D7 note.

"You know, John, that doesn't sound half bad. It could work for the song." Paul told him. He quickly scribbled down the chords on a pad of paper and, murmuring to himself, started to strum the same chords on the guitar. Eventually, after mulling for a moment, he added a few other chords into the progression and continued to jot down notes. John watched carefully.

Paul looked up. "I think we could have this song sorted soon, we just have to fix up some of those lyrics and work through these chords a bit. George and I can do that while you work on the words. Why don't you get Ringo to help you too?"

The rhythm guitarist stood up from his chair and padded over to the older man behind his drum kit. Ringo stared up at him with those sad, blue eyes.

"You alright, John?" He greeted quietly. He sucked on the cigarette in his fingers tiredly.

John nodded. "Paul said to work on the... the chords." His brow furrowed. "No, the... um, the words. I think that was it, yeah. The words."

Richard blinked up at his friend once again before standing up and shuffling over to another small coffee table nearby. There were two chairs waiting for them. The men sat down and John took out the crumpled up lyric sheet from his trouser pocket and gave it to Ringo.

"Well, first thing's first," Ringo assessed, "we need a new sheet; this one looks a little disorganised."

After settling down once more, pen and paper in hand, the drummer waited for John to start.

The dusty desert was back. This time, a strong sandstorm screamed past him until he couldn't even distinguish between letters and numbers, dates and memories. He stared at the paper with two wide, brown eyes like whirlpools. Ringo's brow furrowed after a steady two minutes of silence from John and he snapped his ringed fingers in front of the man's face.

"John?"

The desert was quiet, still. John's hazy orbs drifted to the concerned blue of the drummer's and he noticed that the room was as silent as his mind; everyone was staring at him.

"Maybe we should take him home,"

"He isn't ready,"

"He never will be-"

"Will all of you just _shut up_!" John yelled. He stood quickly and reared at the men watching him; Paul and George were seated, staring up from their guitars, and Brian and George Martin were watching from the booth. It was George who spoke, looking back at John with his dark, melancholy eyes, peeking out from under his mop-top.

"No one was talkin', John."

The rhythm guitarist's chest heaved in and out with erratic breaths as Ringo guided him back to the chair and rested a hand on his knee. He was saying something but John couldn't hear it over the alarm bells ringing in his mind. He looked at the paper again and he saw it, etched into the paper in sharp, black handwriting: sharper than the eyes watching him: darker than the black hood of the car that mowed him down.

It read, ' _**YOU'RE NEXT**_'.

And no one in the room, not even Ringo sitting right in front of the man, could have foreseen what happened next.

The two eldest locked eyes; a hysterical pair of brown burrowing into wide, worried blue, as John launched himself from the chair and hurled a fist straight at Ringo's jaw. Skin collided with skin, and, with a yelp of surprise, the drummer skidded from his seat and toppled onto the ground. He looked up at John in fear.

"Fuckin' hell- John, _stop_!" Paul yelled, rushing over and pulling the raving rhythm guitarist away from Ringo scrambling further away like a hurt, skittish animal.

"What do you want with me!?" John screeched. He had George holding him back now. It was like the older man had been possessed and had gained an inhuman amount of strength in a matter of seconds. Ringo appeared so much smaller than he already was, cowering next to his drum kit. "You bastard, I'll cripple you!"

Brian had joined the three struggling men quickly. He wasn't a fighting man. John was comparable to a lion in this state, and the manager felt as though he was about to step into his cage armed with nothing but a stool and a whip.

He collided with the rhythm guitarist and clutched him tight by his shoulders, their faces only inches apart. John's wild eyes eventually focused on Brian's steely blue and he stopped thrashing. Paul and George let go, albeit cautiously.

The room echoed with husky, laboured breaths. Brian, from the corner of his vision, watched George silently make his way over to a shaken-looking Ringo huddled on the floor and they exchanged some murmured words before turning back to watch the scene unfold between him and John.

"Hey, Lennon," Brian's voice was low. He noticed John's gaze switch back and fourth between him and the pad of paper of the table. "What's the matter?"

The rhythm guitarist had a voice as breezy as a gust of wind in Winter. "He wrote it," a trembling finger pointed to Ringo. On the receiving end, the drummer looked horrified, blue eyes wide with shock.

"Wrote what, John?"

John's orbs stared back into Brian's. "Look at the paper," he instructed with a scared voice. Brian studied John one last worried time and approached the pad of paper sitting open on the table: empty. There was nothing. Nothing but the white paper, comparable to the petrified white in John's eyes.

"There's nothing there," Brian said. He gave Paul a quick, concerned glance and gazed back at the rhythm guitarist. "It's blank."

Paul muttered in despair, burying his head in his hands. "He's gone mad..." his voice, hindered due to his obstructive palms, was laden with tears.

John jittered a little under Brian's scrutiny. He saw George stare at him for a moment, before the young guitarist went back to gently rubbing Ringo's left shoulder. The drummer looked just as shaken as John himself.

"John, get your coat on, we're leaving." Brian announced. The rhythm guitarist tilted his head a little like a confused animal and continued to stare. He didn't dare approach the pad of paper on the table in front of him, only edging over to the coat hanger near the exit and clutched at it. Brian took him gently by the arm and opened the door. "We'll meet you back at the flat soon, alright?" Then, the two men left quickly, like a gust of wind had blew through the room and swept them away.

The three Beatles said nothing, only stared.

**... ... ...**

"John, your little... _friend_ is here,"

John Lennon raced down the stairs and watched Mimi stare at him, a round-faced teenager standing in the doorway silently. John smirked.

"Alright, Paul?" He greeted, coming closer.

Paul nodded. "Hey, John," and smiled a little stiffly. Behind him, he carried a beaten up acoustic guitar hung over his shoulder using string. His hazel orbs bugged out like he was desperate to escape the watchful eyes of the ashen-faced woman scrutinising him carefully.

"Well we gonna practice or not?" The older boy asked impatiently. Paul was just about to gratefully step through the doorway when Mimi used her hand to block his path. Paul halted.

"You and your friend can practice in the front porch." She said, lips tight and enunciated words sharp like needles.

John moaned angrily. "But Mimi-"

"I will not have that racket in my house; you can play in the porch or not at all." She announced. Her clinical eyes burnt back into John's fierce brown ones.

"Fine." He huffed. Paul reversed nervously back into the small porch and John stepped through, casting one last cold glance at Mimi, who gave the same look to him in return. The woman closed the front door when John was settled and left the two boys alone.

"Sorry about that; Mimi can be a right cow sometimes."

"I heard that John!" A brittle voice echoed through the porch and made John wince slightly.

Paul snickered lightly. "It's alright. My mum used to be like that too: strict, like."

John looked at the younger boy darkly. "She's not me mum. She's me aunt." Then he went back to tuning his own guitar in silence.

Paul watched the older boy for a moment. "I'm sorry, I just thought-"

"It's alright. You didn't know."

His strong jaw was tense as he picked at the strings. The two brown eyes were narrow and sullen, his shoulders drawn into his chest a bit like he was shielding himself. Paul felt a wave of guilt wash over him.

"Well we'll show her won't we, your aunt Mimi; we'll be famous and we'll play all over the world and no one will call it racket then." He said quietly, a small, endearing smile pressed to his lips.

John looked up. He stared at Paul with the same brown eyes, only this time they were smiling back at him.

"Yeah," he said, "we will."

**... ... ...**

Before John knew it, he was sat somewhere entirely different.

"Paul?" He whispered.

"Paul's not here right now, John, just Brian and I." That voice was a little hazy.

"Where have I been?" The rhythm guitarist said to himself. He couldn't remember getting here. The walls were a subtle cream colour, the carpet a deep blood red. He looked down and noticed he was perched on a brown leather sofa, slightly faded with age. The room held an odour of coffee and lavender; it was rather relaxing, but John found himself up on his feet in a panic. Immediately, Brian was by his side.

"John, you're alright. We're at that psychiatrist Doctor Robert talked about."

"Psychiatrist," John murmured. His mouth opened and closed a little as he looked around the room some more.

"Are we gonna practice now, John?" A familiar Scouse voice asked.

"In a minute," he grumbled.

"John, who are you talking to?"

The rhythm guitarist turned to look at Brian next to him. The manager had two watery blue eyes and he gazed deep into John's face with worry. His forehead was tattooed with a frown.

"Paulie," John smiled, confused, "he's right over-"

John's orbs drifted over to where Paul had stood and found the empty space greeting him. His smiled dwindled.

"Maybe he went to the loo," explained the musician. Brian plastered on a dismal smile and helped John to sit back down on the sofa quietly.

John felt a shuffle to his right and noticed his aunt Mimi beside him. She had her arms folded over her breast and a disapproving scowl tinted on her lips. Her eyes burnt like cigarettes, and John finally realised how long it had been since his last smoke; he felt the starved crave for nicotine claw at his will, though he ignored it for the time being.

Mimi chided, "You never should have picked up that bloody guitar, I knew it. It's only gone and got you landed in the _madhouse_."

John tried to reason with her. "Brian said it was only a... a psychiatrist; just one session."

"Oh?" Her orbs widened in mock surprise. "Just one, eh? John, I knew you were daft but not this daft. They'll take you away: lock you up! And then what will you do? Brian can't help you there, neither can your little friend Paul or that George boy you're so fond of."

"Leave them out of this, Mimi," growled John, "they've done nothin' to you."

Mimi tutted to herself, turning her head to look straight. Her eyebrow was cocked in bitterness and her strong nose, similar to John's himself, crinkled in ire. "Look now," she said, "they're watching you talk to yourself. You're a foolish boy, John, a _stupid little boy._"

For a moment, John had forgotten that Brian was seated on the sofa armrest, scrutinising him with horror. John's dark eyes met with Brian's rippling blue ones and remained locked. Eventually, the manager looked away.

The different voice blew across the room like a breeze. "John, do you know why you're here?"

John blinked. "Write a song..." he murmured, confused. Brian silently shook his head a put a hand to his mouth.

"Do you remember being referred? By Doctor Robert?"

The rhythm guitarist moved his mouth slightly to keep up with the words said around him. "Doctor Robert," he murmured to himself.

Finally, his brown eyes met with another chocolate pair. They were a narrow crescent shape, all-seeing and clinical. She had a rather small nose that pinched in her entire face right in the middle. She paused for a moment and looked over John once again with those earnest eyes.

"My name is Doctor Rigby, John. I'm your psychiatrist. I'm here to get you better, okay?" She said.

"She's a pretty bird, ain't she?" Paul sat down beside the rhythm guitarist and nudged him with a quiet arm. John blinked for a moment and looked at Brian, then dropped his gaze back to Paul.

His words were hushed. "Weren't you workin' on the song?" He asked.

Doctor Rigby kept her voice mildly curious, but not intrusive. "John, who are you talking to?"

John looked at her again and felt Paul lean closer to him; his tone was laden with a dark sort of anger. "She's pretendin' I'm not here; she's makin' you look _mental_." The rhythm guitarist could hear the venom drip from his words.

"Do you see your friend Paul?" Doctor Rigby asked again. Her big brown eyes were swirling with questions.

"Answer the woman, please John." Brian begged.

It took the man a moment to answer. "Yes," his tone was chalky and his eyes were locked on the doctor but he felt Paul's weight press into him slightly; he could feel the burning heat from the bassist's fuming stare drill holes into his side.

"What is he saying?"

John shifted in his seat a little. "He says you're pretty,"

Doctor Rigby couldn't help but smile a little when she heard him, though she kept herself poised and professional. "When did you first start experiencing these hallucinations, John?" She inquired.

The bassist shuffled closer.

"Well," John answered quietly, "it all started when I first kissed Paul McCartney."

**... ... ...**

**(Hello everyone!**

**My my, it has been a while hasn't it? I'm sorry I kept you all waiting. School and life has been very busy and awkward and has kept me from updating regularly. Hopefully, this chapter will make up for it? If not, I do apologise.**

**Also, if I haven't reviewed any stories, I will! I haven't had time to read but I will definitely make time to because I have week off from school. Don't fret, my little pets!**

**Thank you for all the support and to everyone who reviews, favourites, and reads my story. I appreciate this greatly and your feedback means the world to me. I'd love it if you could give me your opinion on this chapter.**

**Once again, I apologise profusely and sincerely for the wait and for being so anti-social. I will definitely change that.**

**See you soon,**

**omgringo.)**


	16. Sober

Brian Epstein remembered the many times he had wandered out of clubs and back alleys, eyes swollen shut from mulberry bruises decorating his face. The salty, coppery taste of his blood tickled the inside of his lips. Every time he breathed in, his ribs would shudder in protest, and every time he breathed out, it came out as a sob. He would shuffle back to his dingy, little bedroom and lock himself away for a few days until the gashes and lacerations on his face had somewhat disappeared. Then, he would carry on selling his records in his shop like nothing had ever happened, and go to sleep every night wishing that he never had to wake up again.

It was difficult: his "_ailment_".

He arrived back home with the letter in his pocket describing him as "psychologically and emotionally unfit for service" and sat with a glass of gin, nursing his sorrows and then drowning them in the alcohol. His emotions were the burden he carried every day on his shoulders: it crippled him, like a mule with a load far too heavy on its back.

He was a slave to his own feelings. His boys, his beloved boys, they didn't mind. They loved him and he loved them.

But it couldn't be like this. John couldn't go through the same shit he had went through.

The room they sat in was stunned into silence. The clock ticked by on the wall and the smell of lavender grew so strong it almost made Brian sick.

"You kissed _Paul_?" His voice had a bite of nervousness. He chewed on his lip and his breath hitched when the rhythm guitarist nodded.

Doctor Rigby continued. "Are you a homosexual, Mr Lennon?"

And John felt Paul press into his side more, so much so that the younger man was leaning against him. John's throat grew dry with anxiety. "I don't know..." he whispered. Brian shifted a little. What would the fans think?

Brian realised that he didn't really care about the fans as much as he should have right in that moment. John was vulnerable and he needed help. But the "help" he had been given seemed to be drowning him.

Doctor Rigby took a note pad out from her breast pocket. "Before we continue, may I ask if you are on any medication? Doctor Robert informed me that he had given you treatment but didn't specify." Her lips were thin as she spoke.

Brian answered quietly. "I believe he prescribed Phenelzine."

She scribbled it down quickly. "Thank you. Now, John, what happened when you kissed Paul? What did you experience?" She inquired. Her small, brown eyes were set in her face, staring into the sullen expression of the musician before her.

Paul bridled a little beside John as he spoke. "It... I don't know what I was thinkin' at the time, really. I like Paulie... but..." his brown gaze twisted in frustration.

The first time he kissed Paul McCartney...

... ... ...

The streets were dark and dew slick. It was the early morning; the people were tucked in bed asleep, sheltered from the nibbling cold that hung in the frosty air like a disease. Two boys- young men, faces strong but eyes bleary- wandered down the road with weariness.

One of them, one with dark hair and slightly softer features, called out sloppily as the other boy walked faster. "John- stop! It's alright, mate."

The other boy was drunk as a sailor- they both were- and refused to cease his fuming stride. He hadn't his glasses on and his eyes were laden with stinging tears; he was almost blind.

"F-Fuck off, Paulie," he threw back a lazy arm, as if to ward off a persistent insect trying to get at him.

The other boy, who was slightly more coherent in his alcohol-fuelled stupor, watched as John wobbled into a small park entrance a little up ahead and disappear into the blackness of the early morning. Paulie quickened his pace in worry.

"John," he bleated, "John where'd you go? You could get 'urt, mate, come back." He ambled around in the dark and cold for a few moments, the dead leaves crunching beneath his shoes and the dew-slick grass squeaking as he walked, until he heard the distinctive sound of sobbing somewhere off to his left.

The boy's attentive ears lead him further off into the park where he met with a weeping young man gathered on a bench. He found himself cautiously moving forward towards the teenager.

"Johnny?"

The cries stifled briefly, the sound of a tipsy mumble, and the young man curled in on himself like a hedgehog in the head lamps of a speeding car.

Like his mother.

"John, come on, it's freezin' out 'ere," Paul murmured, sliding gingerly next to the boy on the bench. Their leather jackets groaned a little as they huddled next to each other in the chilly evening air.

John continued to babble incoherently, clutching at his waist as if he were trying to hug himself, or claw out his aching heart pumping icy blood through his veins: blood not even vodka or cigarettes could warm. He cried and cried, and after a few minutes had passed, he attached himself to Paul's leather-clad shoulder and held on like a vice.

Paul looked at John and saw two watery eyes, hazy and bloodshot, burning through his very soul. The older boy had a chattering jaw and a thick, greasy head of Teddy Boy hair, combed upwards. His sharp nose was a mere inch away from the younger boy's own rounded one.

Those eyes. If Paul stared into them any longer, he would go mad.

"My mother," John finally whispered. Paul was instantly hit by the dank stench of alcohol, and it reminded him of the very first time the two had ever met. He inwardly grimaced but kept himself attentive and hung onto John's every word. "My mother didn't want me, Paul."

Paul frowned. He had met Julia and she seemed like a wonderful lady, a little ostentatious but a lovely woman nonetheless.

"Oh, John, I'm sure that's not-"

John edged closer, so close that their noses were now touching. He bowed his head for a moment and gripped at the collar of Paul's jacket, clinging onto it. He pushed his head into the younger boy's chest and cried for a moment, then he looked back up at his friend.

His voice trembled with cold and despair. "She gave me away... she didn't want me."

Then, a small whine, one that resembled a hurt animal with its paw caught in a trap, escaped from John's throat. He pressed against Paul's chest and curled into him, with his knees close to his chin. Paul had to wrap his arms around John so that the older boy didn't fall from his teetering position on the bench.

"Now she's fuckin' _dead_." John slurred.

The silence was deafening, and Paul could feel himself drowning in it. His own mother had passed a few years before he even met John, and now the older boy's mother had gone again too: this time for good.

Paul wrapped his arms tighter around John's cold, frigid body and sighed into his hair. John continued to tremble from the biting temperature and from his sobs.

His voice was soft, though dripping with agony. "I wish I was dead,"

Paul shushed him like a comforting parent and pulled him in even closer, caressing his palm up and down the older boy's back and across his hair. "No, John, you have so much to live for."

"Nobody wants me-"

"I want you," Paul said, and he watched John's teary, brown eyes stare up at his own hazel ones. "I want you here with me and I want you to stay strong because you are strong, John, and we need you here; you're our leader... you're my friend."

Perhaps it was the alcohol.

Perhaps, when John Lennon lifted himself off of Paul McCartney's tear-soaked chest and looked straight into those rippling, hazel eyes, it was the whiskey he had sloshed back earlier that night in the pub.

Perhaps, when John Lennon inched forward and pressed his lips against Paul McCartney's, it was the aged brandy he stole from Mimi's cabinet.

Perhaps, when Paul McCartney kissed back, it wasn't the alcohol at all.

Perhaps, it was love.

... ... ...

"Paulie told me that there were no cars," John finished. His tense hands were pressed against his knees. He had a twitching niggle in the back of his skull every time he thought about the headlights running him down. He blinked stiffly when the horn ripped through the blank slate in his mind and he flinched.

Brian put his palm on John's shoulder, like an anchor pulling the rhythm guitarist back into the present. "You alright, John?" His voice was so soft, John could barely hear it over the screaming fans playing like a record in his brain. His eyes were vacant as he stared back into the manager's blue orbs and a hum escaped his throat, bubbling and dwindling into nothingness.

Brian exchanged a glance with the psychiatrist. "He keeps fading in and out like this," he said sadly. "It's like he's not even here."

John watched Paul shake his head a little. "They're talkin' about you, you know?" He grumbled.

"Are they?" Asked John.

"Yeah," the bassist said darkly. His hazel eyes were a bit too bright for John's liking. "Why don't we just get outta here? This is pointless."

The rhythm guitarist nodded and stood. Brian and Doctor Rigby instantly grew quiet.

The woman smiled. "Where are you off to, John?" It was a little condescending in John's eyes. He scrunched up his face.

"What the fuck is it to you?" He snapped.

Brian frowned, quiet voice suddenly gaining a bite of frustration. "John, don't be rude."

Despite the logical part of his brain commanding him to follow the order, the animal inside of John bared its teeth and snarled. "You can't tell me what to do; I'm not some little kid you can boss around." And he turned on his heel to follow Paul to the door.

As he clutched the cool metal of the handle, Brian's roaring anger spread a surge of cold all over his body. It was something the rhythm guitarist had never heard from the manager, and, if he were turned around to see his face, he would have shook with fear right then and there.

It bubbled up in his throat and came out as a wrathful cry, like an eagle screaming out into the blackness of the night, like a hurricane sweeping through the very room and hurling it apart.

"John Lennon, you sit down right now or_ we're through!_"

And then, silence.

That had never happened. Brian had never- never- raised his voice to any of his boys like that. It had taken the wind right out of him and the musician and shook them both. They were still. John slowly released his grasp from the door handle and shuffled back to the sofa like a lost child.

He was sat again. Paul was nowhere to be seen.

Doctor Rigby broke the silence with a small voice. "Tell me more about the cars, John."

... ... ...

When they left the building and shambled back to the limousine, it was raining.

The water hammered down angrily, pissing on the two men hurrying back to the car like mice scurrying into their nest. John hadn't looked at Brian once, and the manager would shift his gaze over to the rhythm guitarist every few moments. Finally, they arrived at the vehicle waiting for them and clambered in.

The rain tapped on the windows like begging children on the street. John's dark eyes were trained firmly on his shoes, small mouth set into a firm line. His ragged, wet mop-top hung over his face and shadowed him.

Finally, Brian spoke. "I didn't mean to shout..." he said softly. "Sometimes I just lose my temper. I would never do anything to hurt you." The two men were closely seated together yet Brian felt as though he were a million miles away from the other man.

John had a chalky voice. "Sometimes I lose my temper too," he said. "And lately I think I've lost something else."

"What have you lost, John?"

"My mind,"

His rippling, brown orbs stared straight into the manager's. His sharp nose had a droplet of rain hanging from the end, yet he didn't seem to notice.

Brian stiffened a little at John's morbid tone. "Do you still see Paul?" He watched the musician inspect the limousine with careful delicacy. Paul blinked back at John from outside the window, hand pressed against the rain mottled glass and hair ringing wet from the downpour. His face was ashen, his eyes were dark and cumbersome.

John shuddered a little, and, with a hesitant shake of his head, he answered. "No,"

"Good,"

... ... ...

Paul set down the paper on the kitchen table finally, George and Ringo watching him. The bassist sighed. "Well, it's finished. John only wrote one verse but it's finished." He looked more tired than he had been in a long time.

He grimaced at the memory of John's inhuman cry when he picked up the radio and shook it like it was a demon, when he brought down Paul's Hofner like an axe. It was not long ago- just a few hours before- and Paul already wished to forget.

"At least that's one song for the new album," muttered George solemnly. Ringo frowned around his cigarette as he smoked.

Paul nodded absently and dragged a weary hand down his face and snaked it through his dark locks. "I feel like goin' back to bed," he muttered, "Maybe use some of John's sleepin' tablets for me'self."

The silence in the room settled like dust, only the tick of the clock on the wall echoing throughout the small kitchen. The three musicians' ears pricked up when they heard the sound of the door shudder open and footsteps. Then, the door closed with a bang.

And they saw the lethargic shell of their John slink in through the doorway and sliver over onto the sofa. He appeared deflated and soaked through right to the skin. His eyes stared into nothingness and at the same time he saw everything.

The three Beatles felt rather out of touch themselves to say anything to him but, eventually, George called out. "We finished the song for you."

No reply.

Ringo looked away, outside to the rainy evening. The distant rumble of thunder growled above but they saw no flash of lightning.

Paul stood from his chair. "Do you want something to eat, John?" He asked, though he didn't approach the man.

Nothing.

He set about making something, regardless, with tears brimming in his eyes. When he took out the butter from the fridge, he heard John mumble something and quickly wiped his stinging orbs with his sleeve discreetly before anyone took notice.

"You're dry," muttered John quietly.

Confused, Paul nodded and he abandoned his sandwich making for a moment. He approached John tentatively; George watched curiously; Ringo stared down and started tracing the squares on the tablecloth.

Paul sat next to John and the sofa groaned a little. "Why wouldn't I be?"

The rhythm guitarist was silent for a moment before he placed a hand on Paul's cheek and felt the bassist stiffen a little under his touch. The hazel eyes stared at him with concern.

"You were in the rain," he murmured, "I _saw_ you."

The coarse hand moved up to Paul's dark hair and began to caress like he was gently petting an animal. Paul didn't say anything, neither did Ringo or George but now both men were watching.

"We went to the psych... psychiatry-"

"_Psychiatrist_?" Paul suggested.

"And we talked about the cars. You were there." He dropped his hand and placed it on Paul's shoulder, slowly pulling the younger man into a hug. "I remember the night we were in the park." He whispered.

Paul's brow furrowed and he looked at George staring at him worryingly over John's shoulder. Ringo smiled, but it was a rather sad, little smile, Paul noticed.

"You're dry though, Paulie," John breathed, "How'd you manage that so quick, eh?"

The bassist rubbed his hand soothingly up and down the rhythm guitarist's damp back in a comforting motion. "I don't know, I guess I'm just faster than you." And John chuckled, which Paul hadn't heard for a long while.

It was like music to his ears.

... ... ...

Right before George was about to turn in to bed, the phone rang. He was sat in the living room; Paul and John were outside, smoking. George didn't know where Ringo was.

The young guitarist started over to the shrill noise of the telephone and held it to his ear. "Hello?" He answered.

"_Hello, George, it's Brian_." Came the tired voice from the other end.

George twirled the telephone cord in his long, skeletal fingers. "Oh, y'alright, Bri. How's it goin'?"

The guitarist could almost hear the manager grimace on the end of the line. "_Not brilliantly, George. Is John there with you?_" The man asked.

George rocked on his heels. "He's outside with Paul, 'aving a ciggie."

"_Oh,_" stumbled Brian, "_well, I suppose you ought to know too; Doctor Robert prescribed John some sleeping pills. I want you to make sure he takes them. We can't have him sleep deprived on top of everything else_."

The guitarist nodded, despite realising that Brian couldn't see him. "Yeah, okay, Eppy. I'll make sure 'e takes them. I was just about to turn in me'self, maybe I could get him up to bed now."

Brian agreed. "_Thank you. Yes, that would be a wise idea. Did you get any more of the song done?_"

"Yeah, we finished it,"

"_That's brilliant. I'm really pleased you and the boys are working through this rough patch so well_." Said Brian.

George frowned a little. If only the man really knew how much John's ailment was tearing them apart.

"Yeah, we're alright, I suppose..."

"_Well okay then. I'll leave you to get some rest. Don't forget about the tablets for John. I'll talk to you boys soon. Good night, George._" The manager bid farewell. His tone was far too flat for George's liking but the guitarist couldn't judge the man's misery.

"Good night, Brian," he replied, and put the phone back on the cradle. He sighed and made his way slowly over into the kitchen and opened the door to the garden.

Cold air greeted him, as did the dark of the night. The clusters of stars were dotted above like freckles on a young face. He heard the murmur of male voices and saw grey smoke lazily drift up into the late sky. His skin became alive with goosebumps raising along his bare arms and he shivered a little as he approached them.

Paul stopped midway through quiet speech. "Hey, George," he greeted, and took another drag from the cigarette. John had his clutched between his fingers but didn't a word.

The youngest gave a half-hearted wave of his hand and a sad smile. "Hi Paul, y'alright John." He found himself hugging his torso lightly in the chill of the still, night air.

"I was just tellin' John about the film we were in a while back." George's eyes widened a little and he heard the slight dismal tone Paul had in his voice. Had John already forgotten about A Hard Day's Night?

His thick mop of hair bounced when he nodded slowly. "Oh, nice..."

John sucked a little eagerly on his cigarette and tried to stifle a choke to himself. Paul patted his shoulder gently. "Easy there, John."

George awkwardly waited until the rhythm guitarist had stopped his brief coughing fit before addressing the two men once again. "Well, Brian just rang; he said that it would be good for John to take his new, er... his new tablets." His dark eyes gazed at Paul's in understanding and the bassist nodded.

"Yeah, we better get you off to bed, Lennon." Paul said lightly, grinding out his ciggie before pinching John's out of his fingers and putting that one out too. John looked bemused.

"But.. but I'm not tired-"

"You will be soon, John, and we can't argue with Eppy so come on." The bassist took John's arm with a gentle hold and started to usher him back into the kitchen and through the living room. He turned back to George. "Why don't you get his pills from the cabinet, while I get him in bed." The guitarist nodded and the two other men disappeared up the stairs, Paul chatting away like nothing had ever been the matter.

George pilfered thorough their medicine cupboard, brushing aside paracetamol and other nameless painkillers. His fingers brushed past a box of bandages before he finally found the sleeping pills Doctor Robert had given them before he left. He pulled it out from the cabinet and filled up a small glass with some water from the tap and made his way across the room and up the stairs. On his way, he heard talking and laughing.

"Remember that one time in Hamburg when me and Pete set that condom on fire?" Paul giggled. John laughed, despite not remembering that ever happening at all. The rhythm guitarist was laying in bed, the covers pulled up to his chin like a small child awaiting a bed time story, and the bassist sat on the edge of the frame chuckling away. When George appeared in the doorway, both men stopped short.

"You ready for your meds, John?" George breathed a little, sitting down on the other side of the mattress and setting the glass and pill on the bedside table. John looked at the items in confusion.

"What're these for?" He asked with a furrowed brow.

Paul and George exchanged a glance. "Uh... just to make you feel a bit better." Paul said. He grimaced silently with his eyes to George and patted a hand on John's.

John had two questioning eyes that glinted in the dim light of the small lamp on the bedside table. His hair was ruffled and he resembled a child; Paul felt the need to crawl into bed with him and tell him everything would be alright. He wanted to chase his worries away with burning whiskey but there was none left in the cupboard.

With George's help, the eldest sat up in bed and swallowed down the pill with some water. He looked at the other two for a few moments silently before laying back down on the mattress.

His words were soft, like the touch of a lover. "Tell me about Hamburg, Paul."

And, like a coursing river, the frown that rested on the bassist's features melted away and he had a wisp of a smile on his lips.

"Well," he started, inching closer to John and making himself a little more comfortable on the bed, "there were these bright, red lights that glowed up in the night like flares. And there were beautiful girls with eyes like diamonds and hair that flowed down to their knees. We were one of the most popular band's performin' in the clubs. We all shared a little room like a family, didn't we, George?"

George nodded, "And we'd stay up all night and all day: barely slept. We didn't 'ave to; we were so hopped up on adrenaline from the gigs, it was like a buzz." The young guitarist's heart melted at the rhythm guitarist's awe-filled expression. "And you were really popular with the crowds, John. They loved you."

"Did they?"

"Yeah, you were their favourite,"

"What did we do?" John asked.

"Pardon?"

"In Hamburg- what did we do there?"

George murmured a little under his breath. "Got really drunk."

The bassist frowned a little but continued the story. "We played songs to people in clubs, and they would all dance and sing along. We went sightseeing and our friend Astrid-" Paul suddenly felt sadness wash over him like a sluggish wave. He couldn't tell John about Stuart (did he even know who Stu was?) That would break his heart.

The young guitarist noticed that Paul had faded out and looked at him with worry as the bassist stared down at the bedsheets with melancholic, hazel eyes. He decided to continue.

"Our friend Astrid was a photographer; she took lots of gear pictures of us. She was really arty and quirky- you'd like her a lot, John." George said.

By this point John was starting to feel fuzzy, and George and Paul could tell from the way he slurred his words a little. "Was Brian there?"

"No, no," George answered, "Not until a little bit later."

"Ah," John's eyes started to sting with the effort of keeping them open. Paul had started to lightly stroke his hair and noticed his sudden weariness.

"Why don't you get some rest, eh John?" He advised soothingly.

The rhythm guitarist seemed to mumble in defiance but his lids shut and he shuffled further into his cover like he was trying to hide. He seemed sapped and limp as he opened his bleary eyes once more, dark orbs so narrow that he barely saw Paul and George staring down at him, and croaked out with a sleepy voice.

"I miss rememberin'..." and soon after, John's lids were closed again and he was dead to the world.

Paul and George's shoulders sagged from a cold sort of relief and fatigue: fatigue from the weary day they had: fatigue of this new life. Paul envied John's forgetfulness and wished he could forget everything too. He looked at George with two sad, hazel eyes and heard George groan as the younger man stood from the mattress.

The guitarist mumbled. "I'm off to bed," he informed the bassist, "I'll see you in the mornin', Paul. Goodnight." He slunk out of the doorway and Paul mumbled after him quietly.

"G'night..."

After a few minutes of lightly petting John's auburn hair, the bassist got up from the bed and took one last look at the sleeping man curled up under the sheets as he closed the bedroom door with a quiet "click". He was about to retire to his own room for the evening, when he heard the front door shut and shuffling from downstairs. He peeked his head over the banister and saw Ringo wander into the living room and disappear.

Frowning, he descended down the stairs with quiet footing and poked his head into the living room. His eyes searched until he saw the drummer's arched back trembling over the kitchen counter. His arms were keeping him up as he shook. Paul's face twisted into concern and, silently, he approached the older man.

His shoes whispered under the carpet. "Ringo? You alright, love?" He asked in a small voice.

Ringo scrubbed his hand across his right eye and stood, but his back still faced Paul. His head was bowed as he blew out an exasperated sigh. He shook his head.

"Where have you been?" The bassist tried to keep his tone as meek as possible. He had never dealt with Ringo upset before; he was treading in new territory. In a way, Richard was more guarded than John, sometimes. Even when he was close to tears, he always tried to smile. For the others.

Paul stepped closer and he could smell an odd odour on Ringo's coat. It was potent and slightly herbal. Paul's brow wrinkled again in curiosity. He scrutinised the drummer and asked a little more firmly.

"Ringo, where were you?"

The drummer sniffled and turned. Paul immediately noticed that the whites of his eyes were a light rose colour and his lids were drooped so far down he looked about to pass out, but yet he stood relatively still. The bassist frowned.

"...Were you... Are you drunk?" He didn't smell like alcohol. The scent of his coat betrayed his sobriety and so did his eyes, yet Paul knew it wasn't alcohol that did this. He grabbed the older man's collar lightly but pulled him closer, his patience wearing thin. "Where the fuck have you been, Ringo, answer me."

Ringo blinked back with sleepy eyes. "I met a friend," he answered. A wisp of a ghostly smile crept on the corner of his mouth. Paul shoved him away.

"Are you high?" He spat.

The older man wobbled slightly over to the kitchen table and bent over it, rubbing his hands through his russet mop of wild hair. "Yeah, Paul... I didn't mean to-"

"Oh, fuck off, Rings. Don't bullshit me. 'Ere I was puttin' John to bed and you were off gettin' stoned. You're a bastard." He turned and began to walk back into the living room when Ringo stood straight and barked.

"'E's not just your responsibility, you know Paul."

Paul looked at Ringo with cold eyes and saw that the older man looked completely sober. His eyes were steely blue and glinting with clarity.

"That's your problem, ain't it? You think it's about you." He growled.

The younger man's hazel eyes narrowed dangerously. "You what?"

"You're only concerned about John when it involves you. And it's like you feel insulted when someone else takes care of 'im. It's not John, it's you!" Paul had never seen the fire in his eyes burn so bright. He felt a pang of fear strike in his chest when the older man stepped closer. "Well, if it was you with fuckin' brain damage, I bet you wouldn't even want to carry on livin', but John's come so far along and you haven't even noticed." His lip flared with indignation. "You call me the bastard... take a look at yer'self."

Paul, stunned by his anger, looked at Ringo with wide, hazel eyes and fell back onto the sofa behind him. He stared straight ahead for a brief moment, as if staring into nothingness, and buried his head in his hands. The drummer heard him shudder with breezy tears and suddenly felt a flow of guilt wash over him like a wave.

He took a seat next to the younger man, his deep voice quiet and pensive. "I'm sorry, Paul... I didn't mean to rare up at you. It's just been a long fuckin' week and I need to let off some steam."

Paul just shook his head a little.

"I haven't slept," Ringo admitted, "I keep havin' dreams about 'im in that bloody bath. I keep thinkin' about 'im lying in the middle of the road, dead." His blue eyes were vacant but they swirled with nightmarish visions that only he could see. "I think gettin' stoned or gettin' drunk is the only way I'll be able to sleep from now on."

Paul's hazel eyes drifted in the direction of the medicine cabinet in the kitchen and he thought about popping one of John's sleeping pills but decided against it.

"I did buy some more whiskey, if you wanna share it." The drummer said.

Paul was tempted. He felt his throat grow a little dry at the thought but remembered fumbling up the stairs when he heard Ringo's shrieks and saw John, naked and cold, in his arms. The alcohol made him slow. And he couldn't be slow if John was ever in danger.

"No, I think I'll just head off to bed, Rings. I think you should too."

The drummer sighed. "Yeah, I suppose so... today's been a shit day, ain't it?"

Paul mumbled something quiet back in reply. He figured that it was going to get a lot worse than just this, and, God, did he hate this.

Before he knew it, the bassist was alone on the couch. He looked up at the clock on the wall and noticed that an hour had passed without him even realising. Ringo must have gone up to bed a while ago.

He heaved his weary, sleep-deprived body up from the sofa and stumbled a little as he blinked through his head rush. When his mind cleared, he saw the lone bottle of whiskey on the kitchen table and felt a single bead of sweat trickle down his forehead.

"Maybe just one.."

... ... ...

**(Hello, everyone. I'm sorry for the delay of this chapter. I had published it a while ago on my Wattpad account because I received a notice from Critics United that I was not allowed to update anymore. I'm sorry. Maybe they'll let it go but I doubt it. So please, if you find this story deleted, please go and find my story on Wattpad and read it there. Hopefully I'll not be beaten by this! It's happened to a lot of other authors too, and it's such a shame.**

**My Wattpad is omgringo. Please don't forget to review this chapter and tell me what you think about it. Thanks for all the support, I love you all.**

**omgringo)**


	17. Memories

Paul shot up in bed and quickly realised that it wasn't his bed he was in at all. He looked around him with thick eyes, crusty with sleep, and found that he was on the bathroom floor. He tasted the bile on his tongue when he rolled it about in his mouth, to lessen the unbearable dryness in his throat, and grimaced; he must have been sick.

Then, he looked down and noticed that he wasn't wearing any trousers. He panicked for a moment but saw that he still had underwear on and his dress shirt. His tie was askew somewhere in the corner of the bathroom, along with his shoes. Oddly enough, Paul couldn't recall removing them during his drunken haze. At least he hadn't wandered out into the street like that. He hoped he hadn't, anyway; the night before was a complete blur. His head felt as if someone had been drilling holes through it all evening. He blinked through a migraine and clutched his aching skull as he stood from the bathroom floor on wobbly legs and groped the sink for support.

Wincing, he peered into the mirror through loose, black strands of his messy mop-top and prodded his unshaven chin with gentle fingers; the first dark hairs had started to sprout and he decided he ought to shave when he was a little less hungover. He was probably still drunk: he couldn't decide.

Stumbling to collect his shoes and tie from the floor, Paul made his was slowly out of the bathroom and back into his own bedroom down the hall. He threw himself down on the bed in a huff and found his eyes drifting over to the clock on the wall; the time read 7:25 in the morning. He sighed and buried his thumping head into the pillow and closed his eyes, drifting back off to sleep after a few minutes.

**... ... ...**

The bassist sat up in bed, blinking. He looked out to the window and noticed that the sky was a bleak, raven evening. He had slept for so long... where were the others?

Shaking away his groggy thoughts, the man stood from the bed and padded out of his room and down the hall. His bare feet dragged along the soft bristles of the carpet beneath his toes as he turned to make his way down the stairs but stopped. His hazel eyes narrowed. John's door was slightly ajar. He started down to the older man's room and gingerly pushed the door open with his fingertips. His breathing was still and quiet in his chest. He waited until the door finally shuddered open and poked his head through.

The room was silent. "John?" He called out, seeing it was empty. "You in here?"

After poking around for a moment, the bassist left the room and continued his way down the stairs. He made his way into the living room and checked for anyone in the kitchen but found no one. He went out into the garden and found nothing. He was the only one here.

"Hello?" He shouted. His worried voice vibrated around the house as an echo.

Then, the front door creaked open.

Paul rushed out into the hall and watched as the street outside blew with rain. The evening was dark, like the bags under his eyes, and icy, like the fear flowing through his veins. Paul ran out of the house and into the empty street, feet slapping against the rain-slick pavement and clapping around him like shots fired from a gun. His eyes narrowed as the rain poured down on him.

"John!" He yelled, "Ringo! George! Where are you?"

Finally, after jogging down the street for a few minutes, Paul saw the shape of a man standing in the middle of the road. He was completely still, silhouetted by the dim light glowing from the street lamps. Paul stopped.

"John?" He whispered to himself. He walked quickly and continued to call out to the figure. "_Hey_! Get out of the road!"

Paul checked the street both ways and was about to cross to get closer to the man when he felt a pair of arms snake around his waist and tug him backwards. His eyes bugged out and he hadn't any air left in his lungs.

"Hey!" He tried to scream. "Hey, get _off_ me."

The stranger continued to haul him back and Paul started to throttle and kick, until another man grabbed him by the legs and lifted him upwards. Paul cried out when he saw the face.

"_George_?" Paul gasped.

The bassist concluded that the first man dragging him was Ringo, due to the several rings digging into his ribs. He couldn't fathom why this was happening, and, all of a sudden, he saw two circles of light emanate from down the road and speed towards the figure standing right in the middle of its path.

"John! Move, get out the road now! John, _please_!" He screamed.

The man finally turned and looked straight at Paul. His wide, brown eyes were streaming with tears and his mouth drew back into a horrifying cry.

"John! Move!" Paul lurched out of Ringo's grasp and kicked George square in the chest as the three men tumbled to the ground. Paul stumbled up and tried to run, but found the young guitarist's hand clutched to his ankle tightly like a vice. Paul turned back to look at the rhythm guitarist and his eyes screwed shut as the car screamed to a stop and collided with his best friend. The body lay limp and doll-like on the ground, cold and dead. The rain pissed down heavily and Paul screamed.

Then, he woke up.

He was caked in cold sweat, eyes wide and fearful. His black hair was matted, glued to his forehead from the perspiration. His body trembled as he clutched his damp cover with an iron grip and he felt his heartbeat in his ears. Somewhere, outside of his room and down the hall, one of the three other Beatles had started to run a bath; the sound of the running water echoed through the still household. Paul's bloodshot eyes stared up at the clock and it read 10 am.

Finally dragging himself out of bed, the bassist shrugged on a shirt and pulled on his jeans and shoes and left the room. He ventured out into the hall and peered through the crack in the open bathroom door to find that it wasn't a bath running, it was only the sink. Paul hurried downstairs.

Ringo's deep, tried voice greeted him as he stepped through to the living room. The drummer was sat on the sofa, magazine in his ringed fingers. "Christ, you look like Hell..." he murmured.

"I feel like it," sighed Paul.

The drummer's full attention was now trained on the younger man, looking more than distressed, as the bassist walked through to the small kitchen and back into the living room, almost as if he were pacing.

"I thought you weren't gonna drink," he said, putting down his magazine beside him.

Paul blinked but continued to pace. He was intermittent, like a blustery breeze. "Huh?"

"You know," Ringo mused, narrowing his concerned eyes a little, "Yesterday? You said you weren't gonna drink."

"_Yeah_?"

"And I came downstairs this mornin' to find that we only had half a bottle of whiskey left. You drink it?"

The younger man sighed in frustration. "Maybe I did- what does it matter?"

The drummer scowled lightly at Paul's disrespectful tone. "Well, I just-"

"Where's John?" Paul interrupted. He stopped his pacing suddenly. "Is he alright?"

"Um," Ringo answered, "he's fine... he's with George, shavin'. I think you should be doin' the same too."

The bassist absently scratched his bristly chin and sighed again. He briskly walked out of the living room and back up to the bathroom, where he saw George and John in the mirror. George had his razor delicately pressed against John's cheek when Paul burst into the room in a huff.

"God," George muttered, cleaning off the soapy razor in the sink of water below, "what's the matter with you?"

Paul shrugged back. "What you doin'?" He asked.

George rolled his eyes. "What's it look like, McCartney? We're raising chickens in 'ere." The sarcasm dripped from his strong Liverpudlian accent. John just stared back at Paul, shaving cream around his neck and on his chin and face. He stood still and waited for George to continue.

Paul's head continued to thump in pain but he ignored it. His nightmare replayed over and over again in his mind like a broken film reel.

The younger man's words brought him back suddenly. "You hungover again?" He concentrated on shaving John's neck with precision.

The bassist watched as the guitarist jittered a little, dragging the razor across John's chin lightly and down his throat. One sudden move, Paul thought, and John could be dead. He shuddered like a wind had blew right through him.

"You listenin', Paul? Or are you still hammered?" George asked in an irritated voice.

Paul blinked his hazy, brown-green eyes and lowered his gaze. The whiskey from last night still sloshed about in his brain and made him feel a little ill. He clutched his stomach gently, his pallid face turning a light shade of green in the process. George's brow furrowed.

"Eh," he said, turning his attention over to the quivering Paul curled shortly into himself, "you alright there, mate?"

The bassist shook his head 'no' lightly, but found that any sort of movement only added to the increasing nausea he felt in his belly. His skull pounded like a drum, his eyes were watery and stinging in their sockets. Everything hurt.

John, some left over shaving cream still on his neck and dotted around his nostrils, stared at Paul in horror. He approached slowly and put a hand on Paul's back. "Let's get him back in bed," he advised. George and Paul were both silently stunned by his sudden authority but didn't argue. The two guitarists helped Paul shuffle back to the bedroom and put him into bed.

George's voice was low with annoyance. "You really need to stop drinkin' so much, Paulie."

Paul closed his eyes for a moment but suddenly remembered the nightmare as it flashed before him. He clutched onto John's wrist as the older man turned to leave with George. Paul's unfocused, hazel orbs were wide and unblinking, spilling over with tears.

He still had an olive tinge to his cheeks. "Please, I can't go to sleep... don't leave me, John." He begged. It reminded the rhythm guitarist of something but he couldn't figure out what. The bassist felt the sting of bile invade his throat but swallowed it down quickly; he grimaced.

John looked to George in the doorway and back to the younger man. His face twisted in concern. "I'll stay with you, don't worry." Paul closed his eyes again briefly and felt the bed sag a little when John clambered onto the mattress with him. He felt his stomach quake with the movement and he curled further into himself to try to lessen the increasing pain in his belly.

A pair of arms wrapped themselves lightly around his shoulders. Paul's eyes popped open as he noticed John had crawled further in beside him. The two men were so close, Paul could smell the soap John had used to shave, John could still smell the bitter whiskey odour on Paul's clothes and breath. George watched them from the door.

"I'll let you be for a while. John, if you or Paul need anything, you come down right away. I'll be back up in a bit with some painkillers for your achin' tummy, Macca." George sniffed. When Paul looked towards the door, the younger man had gone.

There was a silence between the two men, only the clock on the wall speaking for them. The quiet was comfortable and it helped soothe Paul's pounding headache a little. He heard John's low, rumbling voice speak softly. "Paul?"

"Yeah, John?"

"You wouldn't get mad, right?" He asked.

Paul frowned a little as he closed his eyes. "Why would I get mad? Don't be silly."

"I forgot the song," John explained, "the one I started. It was something to do with... um-"

"It's alright; we got it all figured out. You can sing it if you'd like. We can go to the studio again when I'm feelin' a bit better. You can come with me to get a new bass too." He whispered, then paused. "John?"

"Yeah, Paul?"

"Can I ask you somethin'?" The younger man inquired.

The rhythm guitarist tucked his chin into Paul's hair. He rested his smooth face on the ruffled, black locks of the bassist and closed his eyes. "Sure you can," he murmured faintly.

"Do you think I'm a bad friend?"

John felt something tug at his heartstrings a little. There was a lump in his throat but he only buried his head deeper into Paul's dark locks and frowned a little.

"Of course not. You're a good mate: my best mate."

The bassist's eyes were watery with tears yet to fall. He curled into John's chest and nodded lightly. He remembered the feel of the chilly night air of 1958 creep in through the window and it reminded him of the evening he spent with John, drunk in the park.

In a short matter of minutes, both men were asleep.

**... ... ...**

In his perfect, little world, John remembered riding his bike down the lane to the park. He made Mimi get him the best bicycle on the street; every kid was jealous. He recalled cherishing that bike almost as much as he did his first guitar. It was shiny and blue, like a racer, and it had a big, loud bell on the front that rang like a arrow through the night. He loved that bike to pieces.

The handles were gleaming, so clear that he could see every inch of joy on his face when he looked down, while he zoomed through puddles and over fields. The spurs whirred and chuckled along like a laughing friend riding alongside him. The azure paint usually became slick, splattered, and stained with russet mud and grime but he always made sure that he cleaned that bike until it shone like a thousand Sun's.

He remembered the day he came home from school, flying down the road like his heels had wings, and finding that Mimi had given his bicycle away to a girl around the corner.

He remembered staring out the front window of the living room and watching the girl sail past on the bicycle: on his bicycle.

He remembered how much it hurt to lose something so close.

Nowadays, John couldn't remember many things anymore.

"John? Johnny?"

"Mimi?"

Blotted vision quickly became clear and he saw the plate before him with a few crumbs scattered on its porcelain surface. When did he get here? Had he eaten? He looked up and noticed George staring down at him with worry.

"What happened?" The older man uttered in fear.

George's eyes widened a little. "It's okay," he fiddled with his forefinger and his thumb nervously, "Nothing happened. You just ate lunch and you drifted off a bit."

John looked down at the plate again and frowned a little. He paused before speaking. "What year is it?"

"Pardon?"

"What _year_ is it?" John asked tentatively, his mind reeling for the answer he couldn't find. "I can't really remember."

The lead guitarist picked up John's plate and carried it over to the counter next to the sink. "1964," he said. His voice feigned optimism but even the rhythm guitarist sensed the melancholy in his words. "You seemed fine a minute ago..."

It came rushing back to John. "I was in the hospital with Paul. I remember now."

George stopped washing the plates and sighed inwardly. "You were in_ bed_ with Paul, then he left. You've been out of the hospital for a while now, John."

John looked down at the kitchen cloth again and frowned. "Where did Paulie go?" He remembered the feel and the warmth of Paul clutched against his chest. He remembered the smell of the booze of his breath and the tears in his hazel eyes.

"He went to get a new bass,"

With a rather disappointed tone, John replied, "Oh. I thought he said I could go with him." The older man's heart sank a little.

"Well he said he wouldn't be long. You weren't really... _around_ when he left an' he didn't wanna disturb you." George reasoned, implying that 'around' meant that John wasn't as lucid as he was in this moment. "You can do somethin' with him when he gets back."

John looked down at the table again and stood. He was dressed in clothes George had picked out for him in the morning: jeans, a loose-fitting shirt, and a jumper. He felt like he was a child, having his outfits picked out for him. It was rather humiliating.

He hadn't even looked in the mirror properly since the accident.

Making his way quietly into the living room area, the rhythm guitarist admired the furnished surroundings of the room. The old, brown sofa appeared comfortable and well-kept but a little worn with age. The carpet held a few stains that he couldn't quite make out. There was a Television set in the corner of the room, a small radio on the table next to it, and a record player also on the table. In the centre of the room was a fireplace. John gingerly bent down, ran a careful finger over the charcoal, and drew his hand back. He stood up and jolted in surprise when he saw himself in a large mirror staring back.

His reflection- John had forgotten the words to describe how tired it looked- had two dull, dark eyes, like dying lights drowning in a sea of fatigue. The hair was askew and faded. The reflection looked older, meaner; it wasn't him. He went to touch his face and let out a gasp.

"George?" Called John with worry.

The younger man quickly appeared behind John in the mirror. "What's wrong?" He asked.

It took the older man a few moments to register the swirling thoughts drifting through his mind like a whirlpool. He looked at George and felt his mouth hang open agape in slight bewilderment. He looked back at the reflection. "Nothing..." he said quietly, "it doesn't matter."

George's brow furrowed a little, "Okay, John," and he wandered back into the kitchen after scrutinising the rhythm guitarist a moment longer.

John stared into that mirror for a few minutes, trying hopelessly to convince himself that the creature looking back wasn't his reflection. He moved closer and narrowed his dark eyes at the figure before him.

The door slammed shut in the hall and John whizzed round. Paul trudged through quietly and gave a sad half-smile to John when their eyes briefly met. Then, he sat tiredly on the brown sofa and stared.

"Hi, Paul," George greeted quickly as he walked past.

Paul looked up in a daze, "Hi," and lowered his head once again. John stood nervously with his back to the mirror, watching the younger man with melancholy orbs of muddy russet.

"Did you get the new bass?" He asked tentatively.

"Yeah," Paul muttered after a moment of silence, "it's out in the hall."

The rhythm guitarist nodded with a gentle shake of his mop-top and, with ginger pace, he took a seat next to his friend on the couch. "When can we go to the studio?" He asked curiously.

"Ringo's already there. We can go now if you'd like." Paul said. John thought he had a tired voice.

"Yes please," John nodded.

He and the bassist stood from the sofa and went to find George.

**... ... ...**

"That was good, lads," George Martin praised from the booth, "why don't we try one last take? Let's see if you can get it even better."

Paul frowned up at the sound engineer with tense eyes. He wanted them to do it again? They had been doing _I'm A Loser_ for almost three hours and Paul could tell Ringo and George were getting frustrated. Whenever Ringo tried to add in a stick flip, John would get confused and stop playing; Ringo was getting bored of the same old beat, but he kept his mouth shut much to Paul's thanks.

However, George didn't.

"_Again_?" He muttered to himself tiredly. The guitarist took a quick swig of lukewarm tea from beside him and heaved a sigh, setting down in one of the nearby chairs. His dark eyes glimmered at Paul in discontent. "Let's do it again then, shall we?" He grumbled.

The bassist looked over to John with light sadness. "Hey, John," he called, approaching the quiet older man, "we're gonna do one more run through it and then we've got it, alright?"

John nodded shortly. "Can you show me the chords again?" His brown orbs flickered over to George briefly with worry.

"Yeah, sure," Paul put down the bass and picked up a left-handed classical guitar from the stand. He was just about to start demonstrating when the studio doors opened and Freda the receptionist stood with pensive eyes. Paul turned to look at her. "Freda? What's the matter?"

She looked pale. "There's someone on the phone for John."

The bassist rolled his eyes. "If it's another '_concerned_' fan, tell them to bugger off-"

"No," she said, her voice low and quiet, "it's Mimi Smith."

**... ... ...**

**(Hi there!**

**It's been an awfully long time, so I decided that you were due for an awfully long chapter. How was it? I'm sorry if there are any mistakes or errors in there; I've been over-tired and plagued by stress recently. There are upcoming exams very soon so I've been trying to escape those... I apologise for the wait.**

**Please don't forget to tell me what you thought about this chapter! Every comment makes my day a lot better. Thank you all so much for the support and I will see you soon.**

**Love you all, thanks for reading!**

**omgringo.)**


	18. Tough Love

**(WARNING: This chapter contains themes of drug usage and mentions sex. You have been warned.)**

... ... ...

Paul was in a state of shock- all of them were- but only for a brief moment. He looked down at John quickly with eyes that screamed a thousand different sorrows; John looked lost and afraid as always. The older man's eyes had considerably widened within those few seconds of awe-filled silence. Mimi Smith was on the line, and Paul could only imagine the intense fire that burned within her veins: he had felt the very same from her before. However, this time, it was different. This time, it was terrifyingly dire.

Paul, snapping awake from his trance, stood from the chair and breathed. He placed the guitar back on the stand and looked at John in sadness. John stared straight back at him. "Mimi?" He whispered. Paul could not distinguish between joyous surprise or horrified anxiety in his voice. He guessed it was both.

"Mimi wants to speak to you, John," Freda said from the doorway of the studio room, "she's on the telephone." Her eyes were watery with deep, distressed precaution. Everyone in the room, even Brian, held nervous airs. No one spoke.

"Is it about the bike?" John whispered, brown eyes watering slightly at the memory. He looked between the men in the studio, each one of them staring in their own horror, with mercy. "I don't wanna get in trouble again." The older man choked a little on a haggard breath and tucked his chin down to his chest as his body became heavy with muffled sobs. Ringo appeared by his side swifter than a cool wind, and told Paul.

"You have to talk to her," the drummer said, eyes desperate and full of dread, "he can't talk to her in this state." The drummer tucked an arm over the rhythm guitarists' shoulder and pulled his trembling body closer to his chest in a comforting hug. His blue orbs begged for Paul to take action, and, as the bassist's scared gaze swept across the room, everyone else silently urged him too.

Paul breathed; a cracked and nervous air settled in his smokey lungs. He stared into John's tear-stained face and turned, walking out of the recording room and down the corridor towards the awaiting phone, Freda hot on his heels.

The dark-haired man felt the heat in his cheeks, the adrenaline burn through his veins like fire and molten lava. However, a cold fear began to brood in his chest and his breathing quickened. Each step he took pounded in his ears, closer and closer, to the black telephone that lay on its side on the counter of the reception desk. Paul felt hot tears spring in his eyes but blinked them away, the sickly swish and swirl of bile in his stomach and the sting in his throat dizzying him. There, past the dark and mortified thoughts of demise that lurked, hidden and snarling, in the dusty corners of his swimming mind, was his heartbeat: like a drum, quaking and echoing in every morsel of his very being. He wanted to scream; the bubbling screech from his lips remained trapped behind a gritted set of teeth, stained with booze and yellowing from the cigarettes he sucked on every evening. There was the telephone. Paul wrapped a shaking hand around the body of it and lifted it to his ear, waiting for the relentless wash of fury and despair to deaf him.

Yet, nothing of that calibre came.

He heard the all too familiar sound of a muffled cry, the breezy shake and frailty of a weep that resounded in his ears and ricocheted around his brain like a bouncing bullet. It sent shivers running up and down his spine, his mouth twitching open and shut, open and shut, until he finally found his voice.

"Miss Smith," he spoke gently, frowning down the telephone as if the person on the other line could see his own demented sorrow.

The sobbing stopped, or at least quietened. "Paul?" Came the voice on the other end. "Is that you?"

"Yeah, it's me; John couldn't come to the phone-"

"Why not?" The fire in her voice was there, but only a lightly burning ember, still mottled with agony. "I need to speak to him."

Paul closed his eyes in pain. "I know, I know." He made his voice slow and as calm as he could manage without breaking down himself. "He isn't well-"

"I bloody well know that myself, Paul!" There it was: the same short temper that John had inherited from his auntie. They even sort of sounded the same, with Mimi being more well-spoken and frail, a high air of womanly heartache. "Why didn't anyone tell me sooner?"

"It's been all over the news, on the radio, the telly... we've had no escape from it." Paul explained.

Her voice softened. "You know very well I don't engage in those frivolous pastimes; I listen to my programmes and that is all." There was a silence on the line between them, brief and painful, then a hoarse whisper. "My dear John... my sweet, little boy. How did this happen?"

Paul felt the tears return and sting his eyes once again. "I don't know... he was hit by a car. He went into a coma for a few days, and, when he woke up, he couldn't remember anythin'."

Mimi struggled to keep the sob in her throat at bay, and choked down the line. "How is he now, Paul?"

"He's..." the musician felt the quiet droplets of tears trail down his cheeks. "He's a little better; he knows our names and he's tryin' to learn the guitar again-"

"Does he remember me?" Mimi asked quietly.

The bassist scrubbed a rough hand across his face to hide the tears. "Yeah, he remembers you, Mimi."

There was a sound at the end of the hallway. Paul's head flicked to where it emanated and saw John striding down the corridor with Ringo behind him, the drummer's face pale and shiny with sweat. The rhythm guitarist's expression had considerably hardened, but Paul could still notice his puffy, scarlet eyes and tear-stained, flushed complexion from where he stood.

"Mimi," he said to her over the line, hazel eyes never once leaving the older man's face, "John's here."

And the phone was ripped away from him by John, narrow eyes squinting back the sorrow in those heavy, brown orbs.

"Julia," he grunted, "I'm in the middle of practice, what do you want?"

Ringo's already ghostly skin paled an unhealthy shade whiter. He looked at Paul with a shake of his untamed mop and gazed back at John.

"Mimi?" John uttered after a moment's pause. "Oh, I forgot... Freda said it was you..." As the conversation went on, Paul witnessed every muscle in John's being slowly loosen, as if the voice on the other end was a fast working sedative like the ones they gave the man at home. His eyes spilled with hot tears, like they had in the studio, and he sobbed down the telephone hysterically, clutching the wire with a vice-like hand. "Oh, Mimi, I don't know how to cope anymore!"

Paul felt foolish for not telling the woman how bad John really was. He ran a shaking hand through his dark hair and hid his face in his palms, wishing to disappear, to fall down a deep, dark hole and never come back out again.

"I'm at the studio, why?" The older man sniffled down the phone. His eyes widened. "You want to come down here?"

Paul's head shot up from his hands and he glanced over at Ringo for a brief moment, before plucking the telephone from John's grasp and putting it to his ear. "Hi, Mimi, it's me again."

"Paul," said the woman with slight, sad irritability, "I was talking to John."

"I know, but you can't come down here,"

There was a swift pause on the other end. "And why not?" She asked. Paul nearly caved in at the shake of her voice.

Ringo had pulled the auburn-haired man into another gentle hug, rocking him back and forth lightly with a gentle whisper in his ear. His blue eyes pleaded with Paul.

"He's really not well, seein' you might make it worse for 'im."

Shit! Why had he said that!? Paul screwed his eyes shut in frustration as Mimi scoffed down the phone, outraged.

"Excuse me? I'm his aunt; I have every right to visit him, especially in these dreadful turn of events." She sounded genuinely hurt and it made Paul's heart ache. She sounded just like John...

"I meant... I mean, I was just sayin'... it's because... you know..." the bassist stuttered, until the phone was snatched away from him once again, this time by Ringo.

"Hello, Miss Smith, it's Ringo 'ere. What Paul really meant to say was that John would love to see you- when he's a little more ready. Right now, he's not in a very good state for any visits. I know... it's unfortunate and I'm sorry but we're only lookin' out for 'im." The drummer had the rhythm guitarist tucked into one shoulder and the phone in the other. Paul curiously thought he resembled some sort of stressing single mother. "Yes, we are taking care of 'im. He's been findin' it a little hard to cope but 'e's gettin' better." Ringo's serious, azure eyes pooled deep and watery with fatigue and sadness. He stroked John's back in a caring way until the slightly younger man had stopped sobbing quite so violently into his shoulder and only remained sniffling.

Paul watched with twisted agony. He felt so useless: a nervous swirl of disdain washing back and forth in his stomach until he felt he would throw up. The world was spinning. He needed a cigarette, or about twenty. He muttered something quick and incomprehensible and dashed from the room, out into the car park. He felt hot and his skin glistened with sweat as he paced back and forth on the gravel and tarmac of the Abbey Road Studios parking lot, eyes wide with anxiety. His raven fringe became matted to his forehead in his dwelling spiral of paranoia, his fingers groping around his lighter in his pocket and another hand delving into his other pocket to find the treasured carton of cigarettes. He pulled out his hand, empty, and frantically began to search his other pockets for any luck, but none came. He was scared, hungover, and cigarette-less.

He couldn't go back in there and face them, he just couldn't. He knew sooner or later he had to, but, in that moment, he was comfortable sliding down the brickwork of the studio building and resting his head on his knees. "Why is this happenin' to me?" He mumbled in anguish, "I don't fuckin' deserve this."

He wanted it to all go away. He felt his cruel world fall apart around him like debris from a bomb. His reality was that of a nightmare, and his dreams, plagued with visions of death and despair, seemed more real than anything that had happened in the past weeks. He couldn't stomach it.

Through the self-loathing whispers and rattles of half-drunken thoughts in his brain, Paul heard a voice gentler than the touch of a mother: promising and alive. It held a mottled tone of sorrow, but a tinge of hope. It spoke of a substance, rich and green, a medicine that could make the pain go away, even if it was only a few hours of beautiful forgetfulness.

Paul looked up at Ringo and nodded. If it helped him ease his pain, he would do it.

... ... ...

Paul couldn't remember what had happened.

He couldn't recall the events leading up to this current moment in time. The memories- whether they were good or bad, the notion escaped him- were distant and fleeting. It suddenly came to him that those memories simply didn't matter. What mattered was how good he felt: light and free. Paul felt happy.

His lips curled around the roach of the joint in his fingers, hungrily and greedily nurturing the sweet, herbal taste of soothing marijuana. The smoke hit the back of his throat and he let it float down to his lungs and stay there, finally exhaling and watching the white mist lazily rise into the foggy bedroom.

He could feel reality, or whatever realm it was he currently dwelled in, wobbling and bending away from his reach. He was lucid enough to realise that, if he took one more hit, he would fall from the teetering edge that he balanced on: peaking his high. Paul felt so weightless and carefree it didn't even bother him that John was probably crying himself to sleep just down the hall. It didn't bother him that Mimi had been weeping down the telephone just hours previous to this moment. It didn't bother him that George had gone straight to bed when they got home, or how Ringo had presented the bassist with two fine grams of some sort of strain: it just didn't matter.

Some time had passed as he lay in bed, lost in thought, as the joint had stopped burning and fell from his limp fingers. Ringo, sitting at the end of the bed, had rescued the marijuana cigarette and had taken a drag, smiling around the end of the roach. The whites of his eyes had adopted the same rosy colour Paul had seen on the cheeks of young children and on the petals of flowers thrown on his stages. Paul felt the vibrations of his deep, satisfied laughter ripple through him and echo in his mind. The drummer raised the lighter to smoke again, when Paul croaked out a little quietly.

"Ringo," he said, "I want one last hit."

The drummer gave that knowing grin and passed the small joint to the bassist. The younger man thanked him under his breath and carefully lit the substance, watching the rolling paper burn quickly and thoroughly. Paul wrapped his lips around the end and inhaled deeply, lustfully, desperately. He felt the gentle embers of the cherry flicker against his nose and plucked the joint from his open mouth. Looking at Ringo with glassy eyes, Paul breathed out, releasing the smoke in a cloud of ivory mist.

That had been the one to truly fuck him over. That final puff had been enough to send his lucid thought tumbling over the edge of logic and reason. Paul was stoned, and he couldn't remember a time he had been happier.

Ringo giggled at the sight of his vulnerable friend, his limp and sagging body glued to the bedsheets, his plump cheeks turned up into a delirious smile. Paul snickered back with glee, and rested a numb hand against his older friend.

"Thank you, Ringsy," he breathed. He laughed a little louder and the drummer raised a slow finger to his own lips, whispering with a choke of hilarity in his words.

"S'alright... Johnny's 'sleep; we have to... to be quiet."

Paul blinked his watery eyes. "Oh..." he said, "oh yeah, I forgot!" He giggled again. "This is some good shit, Ringo, what is this?"

Ringo's reply deepened, swirled, flew through the air and into the humid heat of the foggy bedroom. Paul could feel the mattress beneath him, he could feel every fibre and particle of the cloth he lay on. Paul felt the air around him. He felt the dryness of his mouth grow a little uncomfortable, but he assured himself he wasn't thirsty.

"Haze," Ringo said.

The bassist frowned when Ringo's voice came from above him, when it flowed through him like the blood circling around his body. He became very aware of the atmosphere and the environment. He tuned into the present and realised that he was talking: for how long he didn't know.

"-and now I see how ridiculous I'm being because I know that I'm only staring at things that aren't there, I'm talking because I know, when I stop, I'll get lost again: lost inside my own head. I know that talking like this may seem quite insane but if I stop I WILL go insane."

Ringo blinked. "Are you alright?" He watched Paul with sleepy eyes. Paul knew the drummer wouldn't be any help in his weed-induced lethargy.

Paul smirked despite feeling anxious. His hazel eyes glued themselves to a stain on the carpet and he became entranced in it, forgetting about his previous concerns. It was a darker shade than the rest of the lighter material. The bassist almost considered it appearing as some sort of hole into another world.

'Maybe it's the rabbit hole to Wonderland,' he thought, 'John would love this.'

He remembered John talking about Lewis Carol and his wild tales of fiction; Paul had never subjected himself to those matters but found solace when John talked so passionately about his fascination with the author. His dark brown eyes burned brighter, his mouth crinkling up into a grin that could be measured to one of childlike joy-

"Paul?" Ringo inquired, "Paul, you're talking again."

The bassist shuddered out of his memory. "Wha'? Am I?"

"Yeah,"

"S-Sorry..."

"S'alright,"

Paul quickly fell back into the purgatory of slight nausea and enlightenment, stuck between his reeling mind and the warm, fuzzy contentment in his tummy. Every time he closed his weary but alert eyes, he fell through every seed and scrap of trivial memory and snippet of forgotten conversation like plummeting through a never-ending chasm. Patterns appeared in front of his eyelids: a swirling vortex of hypnotic sedation.

"If I open me eyes," Paul whispered to himself, "I'm gonna be sick."

He felt like he was tumbling downwards forever, his mind and body shifting and bending beyond his control. Ringo's heavy breathing had moved far away and carried like a melody to his ears, the hitches and exhales comparable to shaky guitar riffs, or tickling keys on a piano. Every creak of the floor boards and groan of the bed touched him deep inside, growing louder and louder, until it almost became unbearable. Paul covered his ears with his palms, and felt a hand touch his face through the thick, numbing haze of the drug. He peeled open his foggy eyes ever so slowly, head pounding and heart thumping in his ears, and saw the pointed, distinct face of a concerned friend.

Paul's breathing had become his main focus and the only noise, save for his deep heartbeat, he could distinguish. The voice in front of him garbled in hollow tongue and jumbled, emotive sound; words and numbers, patterns and orders, had lost their meaning all of a sudden. The face hovered among the smoke and floated away. He felt the pad of gentle fingers grip lightly at his wrists, pulling away his hands protecting his ears. Paul's unfocused eyes became dazzled at the dancing lights on the ceiling above. He forgot, for a moment, where he was, until a tone flooded through his ears. It was soft song, a hoarse melody, almost like a lullaby.

"One day you'll look to see I've gone

For tomorrow may rain,

So I'll follow the sun."

Instantly, relief washed over him when a sea of simpler memories cascaded through his drug-addled thoughts. He felt the hot, stale air of the Cavern Club tickle his nose, felt the warm lights and remembered the smiles and cheers of the crowd cramped in that dingy, little underground room they performed in. He heard the twang of the rockabilly guitar soothe his ears as the voice continued to sing the same verse over and over, as if it was the only thing the voice could remember to say.

And then, Paul realised.

He, like a stone hurled into a pond, was thrown back into reality long enough to realise that the voice belonged to John, and that the older man had gathered the bassist in his arms and had started to rock him back and fourth against his chest. Ringo and George had gathered tentatively in front on them, both men kneeling on the floor, with worry in their eyes. Paul looked at George in confusion.

"You were screamin'," he said, "too stoned to even hear yourself screamin', you stupid bastard." Paul couldn't tell whether George was being frank with him or sympathetic, but the thought had passed him by as quickly as a hot wind, and he stared back up at John singing softly.

It was the same verse, over and over, but it was comforting to the dark-haired man. It reminded him of happier times in Hamburg and the Cavern. He remembered writing that song and he had forgotten about it for a long while, until now. He heard George and Ringo join in slowly, all three men singing his song. He blurred between reality and somewhere completely different but felt secure in John's protective arms like that.

"One day you'll look to see I've gone

For tomorrow may rain,

so I'll follow the sun."

... ... ...

After Paul finally drifted off in John's arms, and John finally finished the song, the three men went out into the hall and closed the bedroom door. Ringo's brow furrowed; he had managed to make himself a little more sober than he was an hour ago, but still had a hard time concentrating fully. He focused on George and how his hands gripped and tightened around each other. "Paul was screamin'?" He asked quietly.

George's eyes widened a little. "You didn't hear 'im either?" The drummer shook his head and shrugged, eyes low in shame. "Look, Rings, I ain't mad at you or Paul for gettin' stoned... just try to be a bit more careful, yeah? It ain't good for John to see Paul like that."

Richard nodded. Despite how drowsy he felt, he hadn't the desire to let sleep claim him just yet. Instead, he ventured downstairs and into the kitchen through the sitting room. He heard footsteps follow him down the staircase and saw John appear at the doorway. "Want a cuppa, John?" The drummer invited, edging around the kitchen to prepare the tea.

"Yeah," the rhythm guitarist said, "ta, Ring." He sat down wearily at the kitchen table. It reminded Ringo of the first day John came back from the hospital. The slightly younger man wore his dressing gown and pyjamas. He looked about ready to curl up and sleep right at the table.

"Why don't you go to bed? You look tired." Advised Ringo, carefully setting down the mug of tea in front of John and having one for himself. The two men sat across from each other, both tentative and quiet in their melancholy.

John had moody eyes. "Why was he like that?" He asked, his hands wrapped around the steaming mug in a desperate attempt to drain its warmth and use it to burn away the horrid image of Paul whimpering in his arms. "He's never been like that."

Ringo, watching the steam from hot beverage rise and swirl, watching it whisk away into nothingness, like his own thoughts, pondered himself as he stared at the slightly younger man. "Must have been stress, ennit? Could 'ave been the weed." The brief memory of himself slumping to the carpeted floor in a comfortable, drugged stupor and closing his eyes zoomed past him, replaced by the horrified shrieks of the bassist tucked in on himself in the bed. He kept saying he was going to be sick, and suddenly the bedroom door had blew open to reveal George and John standing in horrified silence. The rhythm guitarist had immediately joined Paul on the bed and looked afraid to touch him at first, but brought the bassist to his chest when he let out a moan of discomfort.

John's dark eyes were trained on the swirling mug of hot tea nurtured in his palms. When he took a sip, a warm fuzz settled in his belly. He could feel Ringo's sorrowful gaze penetrating him and quietly muttered out into the sleepy kitchen, "Stop lookin' at me like that," before falling into silence once again.

The drummer dipped his head a little to his own beverage. He fancied a cigarette but felt the marijuana in his system stilt him in movement; he remained in his poised position at the table and lifted his gaze to John's weary face with a concerned gleam in his blue eyes. "Do you want to see Mimi again?" He asked. He felt his front tooth begin to nibble lightly on the inside of his lip nervously when John didn't reply for a while: the slightly older man waited.

"I don't know," the rhythm guitarist mumbled into his mug, staring as if it held a galaxy or as though it was a work of art Ringo could never see. His dark eyes were lost in a cloudy blanket of wonderment and sheer exhaustion. The drummer wondered if those sleeping tablets were actually working. John looked like he hadn't had a decent night's rest in too long. He'd have to talk to Brian about that; the manager was always popping a pill of some sort.

"She's worried about you," Ringo solemnly replied. His orbs were trained on John's face but he kept his head low, as well as his voice. He saw the younger man wince silently, expression drawing into a grimace, as if being stabbed by some sort of hot poker; he was back in the cold, cruel clutches of reality. He released the grasp he held on his cup of tea and ran a warm hand down his face, shielding his sensitive eyes from the blaring light hanging from the ceiling. Maybe he was trying to hide from his responsibilities, Ringo thought.

John murmured into his palms, "I know she is; everyone's worried about me. What else is new?" His tone held the same bitter cynicism Ringo had grown so used to hearing. It felt like John hadn't been sarcastic in such a long time. Even in his rare pessimistic moments, the drummer felt glad that John's nihilistic attitude had not been shaken by the accident, even if it annoyed Ringo and the others to no end. "I can't let her see me like this, even that queenie bastard Paul said so."

Ringo frowned. "He didn't mean it like that, y'know-"

"Yeah, well it sure did sound that way. Face it, Rings; I'm a hopeless case now. I'm a freak, a brain-dead lunatic-"

"Brain damaged-"

"What's the difference, eh?" John bellowed, strained voice echoing around the morbidly silent kitchen. His hands had finally left his face and lay curled tightly on the tablecloth as fists. He stared at Ringo with those critical eyes and watched the older man before him begin to try and shrink back into his semi-stoned state of blissful unawareness. "Either way, I'm not right, am I? I can't trust myself with anythin' anymore. I don't even think you guys can trust me... I've seen how you all look at me; you think I'm some sort of fuckin' retard."

Ringo was about to disagree, eyes turning up in disdain, when John's anguished sigh cut through the tense, pregnant atmosphere of the kitchen. The rhythm guitarist reached into the pocket of his navy dressing gown and retrieved out a packet of cigarettes, pulling out a tobacco stick and leaving it dangling from his bottom lip. His fingers fumbled with the match he struck against the box and he let it ignite, breathing in the musky taste of the cigarette. He shook away the flame of the match and relaxed into his nicotine rush heavily.

The drummer stared down at his hands wrapped around his mug of tea. He let the sentence hang in the air like the swirling tobacco smoke. "Paul's only lookin' out for you. He's tryin' his best; we all are."

John sucked the end of the cigarette with a hard, grating scowl, squinting through the foggy kitchen. "The only thing Paul seems to be lookin' out for is the end of a bottle." His wild fringe shadowed the dark, wallowing ripple swimming through those maddening orbs. A brief wash of bitterness cascaded over his pale, pallid features before melting away into numbing sadness once again.

"Maybe seein' Mimi will help you cope a bit better," Suggested Ringo, after a moment of stunned pause, "She really misses you and she wants you back to..." He stopped awkwardly sipped his tea but felt lacklustre doing so: it didn't interest him anymore.

"To what?" John scowled, "Normal? She thinks I'm nuts and that's it," John muttered. His tone was sour and negligent. He mulled about with the cigarette and flicked the growing ash off into the ash tray in the middle of the kitchen table.

Ringo argued gently. "She said she wanted to see you; she loves you and she wants to help you... she doesn't think you're crazy." He felt an almost paternal urge to wrap a set of protective arms around the slightly younger man but thought that John looked too agitated for his affection.

"Maybe she doesn't... maybe you're just as crazy as I am." He said quietly. He quickly took a drag from the cigarette and held the nicotine back in his throat, grinding out the last of the ash into the tray and flicking the filter into the remaining pile of dirty, grey soot. He stared at Ringo with those intensely cold eyes, despite them appearing so warm only a moment ago, and his mouth turned downwards in crooked fashion.

Ringo blinked. "W-Wha'..."

"I see the way you look at me, feel the way you hold me; you're goin' queer on me, aren't you?" John snarled.

"No! Of course not!" The drummer defended, outraged. His blue orbs tightened in confusion. "I don't think of you like that at all, John-"

"It's just all one big ploy!" Huffed the rhythm guitarist. "I bet you hired that driver to knock me down, didn't you!? You wanted me out of the picture!"

Ringo could tell John was getting worked up again: whether it was another one of those 'episodes' Doctor Robert warned him about or something else, he didn't know. His mind reeled back to the broken Hofner and the frosty, sunken body of John shivering in the bath. "John-"

"George doesn't want me around either; he thinks I'm an idiot or somethin'-"

"John, please-"

"Paul doesn't love me-"

"No, that's not true, you're gettin' it all wrong-"

"Don't, R-Ringo!" John yelled, the kitchen almost shaking around them. His fist slammed against the table and some of the tea from the mug sloshed onto the checkered cloth haphazardly. Then, his voice dropped to a level so quiet Ringo struggled to hear it. "Don't tell me I'm wrong." He looked up at the drummer with those haunted orbs of mahogany. "Is it wrong to be scared, eh?" He didn't blink, just burned his dark eyes through Ringo's wide blue ones. "Is it wrong to be scared of lookin' at yer'self in the mirror because you don't know if you'll remember what you see? Is it wrong to be scared to wake up because you might forget the day you were born, or the road you live on, or your own name?" John's gaze never once flickered away. "Because I'm scared, Ringo. I'm fucking terrified."

The drummer couldn't breathe for a moment. After a beat, he found his bearings and sighed a little. "Hey," he started slowly, gently, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it."

John finally blinked and his voice crackled in response. "S'alright," he said.

"You would tell me, wouldn't you, if anythin' was on your mind?" Ringo pondered thoughtfully. He wrapped his fingers around the warm mug once again and saw John's gaze drop down back into his drink.

"I've got a lot of things on me mind, Rings: it would take too long."

The slightly older man hummed in response. "Well we've got a lot of time, ain't we?"

"I'm tired," said John.

"So am I," replied Ringo.

Lennon sighed, deflated. His pale cheeks, still flushed a little red from his outburst, had grown hollow and gaunt over the past week. Thinking about it, John hadn't been eating much recently... Ringo hoped that wouldn't be another issue they would have to overcome.

He didn't know why he said it. He didn't know why the words came tumbling out of his mouth, but they had, even when he willed himself to keep quiet. "Paul was talkin' about you." Ringo admitted.

The dark, penetrating eyes of John Lennon cast their intimidating gaze to the drummer. "What did he say?"

By this point, Richard was chiding himself silently. Why had he said that!? His stoned brain took a minute to process the question. "He was talkin' about Alice In Wonderland... I think he didn't know what he was sayin'." Ringo tried to smile but it came out as a grimace.

"Alice In Wonderland?" John repeated.

"Yeah," said Ringo, "he said how you loved it. He kept goin' on about how happy you looked when you talked about it."

The rhythm guitarist nodded, "I think I remember it." He looked down at his swirling tea, disinterested.

The kitchen fell to deafening silence once again: horrible, awkward, maddening silence that hurt to sit in. The clock ticking on the wall penetrated his ears, chiming like glass, echoing like thunder.

"When was the last time you had a shag?"

Ringo's hazy, azure eyes snapped to John's face, awakening from his short trance. His brow furrowed a little. "'Scuse me?"

"Sex, Ringo: when did you last have it?" His expression seemed peculiarly earnest for such an intimate and frankly odd question. "Fuckin' 'ell, don't tell me you've forgotten- that's my job- or has it just been that long?"

"Um..." stuttered the drummer, embarrassed, "why does it matter?" He felt his cheeks flush red a little.

John rolled his dark eyes. "It has been that long then, eh? I just wanted to ask. I wanted to see if you're just as starved of it as I am. From my guess, I'd say you are." He sipped his tea but watched the slightly older man from over the rim of his mug.

Ringo had to admit; he hadn't had the pleasure of intercourse or felt the touch of a woman for quite some time. He supposed he hadn't thought about sex because his mind was so occupied on caring for his ailing bandmate, but, having realised how long it had been, his patience grew a little frayed. Feeling slightly mortified, the drummer tried to snark back. "Can't go a week or two without wettin' your dick, Lennon?"

As cynical and honest as ever, the rhythm guitarist mulled with his hot drink. "I'm fuckin' gaggin' for it. I'm so desperate that even if Paul came down 'ere right now with his peachy, little arse on show I'd probably give it a go, just close me eyes of course."

The drummer squirmed a little, remembering Paul talking about being suspicious of John's intentions and reading the notebook. His eyes darted up to John for a moment and quickly went back to the tablecloth. His mind wandered a little. What if John really felt that way towards Paul? They had been spending a lot of time together. George had even told Ringo that the two musicians were sharing the same bed. Maybe there was something going on that no one wanted to admit. The drummer knew that, if he asked the temperate rhythm guitarist, he would surely face his wrath on the subject. Yet, he desired to know the truth.

"John," he started carefully, "is there anyone you do have your eye on?" John's brows raised at the drummer's timid question.

"Fuckin' 'ell," the auburn-haired man smirked, "I was right; you do fancy me."

Ringo shook his head. "No! I-I don't... I was just wonderin'..." he trailed off awkwardly.

John's eyes narrowed a little. "What aren't you lettin' on, Rings?"

"It's nothin',"

"Go on, tell us."

"No, it doesn't matter-"

"Ringo," John said with a low voice. He leaned forward so that his dark eyes gazed into Ringo's, the light from above glimmering in his russet orbs and accentuating his deep, mulberry bags. "Tell me."

The drummer sighed. Things would change, if he ever told John what Paul had told him, and it could possibly get someone arrested or locked away if the information or any rumour got into the wrong hands: the hands of the press. But what could possibly be worse than this? What else could go wrong when your best friend didn't truly know who he was anymore? "D-Don't get mad, alright?" Ringo cautioned nervously. John's left brow cocked in intrigue and he took another sip of tea. Ringo ran a hand through his hair as he spoke. "I was just wonderin'- and I may not be right- if you... if you and Paul were, you know..."

John blinked.

Ringo stuttered, eyes darting about the kitchen before focusing on his slightly trembling hands. "If you and Paul were... together..." Then, much to the drummer's dread, the room they sat in fell to silence.

The rhythm guitarist held his oddly neutral gaze for a few beats longer before looking down at his mug again. He breathed in, then out, then in again, as if preparing or calming himself. Ringo felt a storm brewing right there in the kitchen, dark, raven clouds sailing overhead and smothering him in the awkward, pregnant atmosphere of quiet. "I don't quite know myself, Rings, to be completely honest with you." The younger of the two said.

Ringo's pensive eyes widened a little. What did that mean? He waited in tense silence for John to elaborate.

"Sometimes I forget that lovin' someone of the same gender is illegal." He said truthfully, "I look at Brian and I think about how horrible it must be to have it all thrown back in your face, to have people spit at you or stare at you, for only bein' who you really are." His pallid face grew sincere. "When I was little I thought that it didn't matter: love is love, and there's enough hate in this world... what could a little more love hurt? I just want to be happy, and if Paul makes me happy, why is that wrong?"

The drummer felt the lump in his throat grow increasingly uncomfortable, the tears sting his eyes, but he kept it all in. He built up that smiling façade like some sort of chain fence, where only his melancholy orbs of deep azure could tell the story his mouth couldn't speak. "Do you... do you love Paul?" He coaxed with a gentle tone.

"That depends," John sighed, wobbly voice adopting a hoarse whisper, "Which type of love will get me locked away?"

"None, in my eyes, John. It's okay: love is love."

"Is it love when the person who makes you feel alive doesn't even love you back?" John asked. He looked down at his tea again in despondency, as if wanting to drown himself in it. He felt his chest heave with pent up breaths of frustration. He paused for a long time, before speaking again. "I put on this mask, Ritchie, and sometimes it's really hard to be the one underneath, you know?" His voice cracked. "Everyone always expects me to be so tough but I... I just can't fuckin' do it anymore."

Then, the tears came. Ringo had suspected from the very moment John had cradled Paul in his arms that there would be tears, whether they would be his or John's he didn't know. John used one rough hand to scrub his face and his watery eyes as he chortled in agony. Ringo didn't know what to do.

"Shall I..." the drummer started, "Shall I get Paul?"

John, in one of his rare and precious moments of lucidity, shook his head. "No, no, I'm alright." He sniffed, and his face considerably hardened, but Ringo didn't believe him.

"No one expects you to be tough, you know. We're all a little fragile right now. We all want to help... sometimes we just don't know how."

John nodded, numb. He sniffled again through his sharp nose and suddenly a sad smirk graced his lips. "I remember when Mimi took me to the Albert Dock when I was about seven, I think; I remember lookin' out over the water and tellin' her that, if she ever fell in, I would save 'er. She said the same thing to me, Rings; she told me I didn't need to be so tough."

Ringo's mouth twitched up into a dismal smile too. Looking at John right there and then, he looked more than a little broken.

... ... ...

John loved Paul.

Ringo didn't really know how to feel. Maybe it was the left over marijuana coursing through his system but Ringo couldn't distinguish that between the fear and also the pride deep in his stomach. When John retired back to bed a few hours later, after they had ran out of nostalgic conversation that kept them up till nearly 4 am, Ringo crawled up to his own boudoir and lay happily awake for what seemed like days. He didn't understand his own joy but he was accepting his new found situation. Who else knew? Brian? George?

Paul?

No, Paul couldn't have known. After all, John said that Paul didn't love him back. Maybe the bassist did feel the same way for John but was too afraid to express his affection. Even though Paul was a lot less guarded than John, he was very defensive about his image and how people looked at him. Maybe he was afraid of how his appeal would change if he was gay, or at least holding feelings for another man.

Ringo didn't mind. He was growing tiresome of their hectic show-business lives. He loved performing but it drained him, and he hadn't even done it in a while since John's accident. Maybe John's situation would even put an end to their career. Producing records were hard work when your rhythm guitarist could barely play the guitar.

He realised, as his blue eyes started drooping closed, that it wouldn't matter to him if The Beatles' career ended right there and then, if Brian pounded on the door with fear in his eyes and sweat on his brow saying it was all over, that the people didn't want to listen anymore. He had gained three brothers and he would rather die than let something else put them in any more agony. If they had to give up touring, it would have to be done.

But Paul wouldn't like that, and John lived for making Paul happy. Maybe they would have continue performing a little while longer. Maybe John would get better with time.

Ringo's eyes closed.

Maybe life wouldn't be so bad after all.

... ... ...

The house, and all the occupants nesting inside, shuddered awake when a pounding on the door echoed through the quiet hallways.

George cracked a groggy eye open and peered up at the bedroom door. The banging continued, relentless. After releasing a lethargic groan, he threw his lanky legs over the side of the mattress and slowly pulled on a pair of jeans and threw on a jumper. He stalked to his door and down the staircase, his bare toes padding against the carpet. The man reached the front door when the knocking- the monstrous pounding- stopped and the figure portrayed in the mottled slivers of glass in the door stood waiting for it to open. George, body heavy with sleep, pulled at the handle tiredly.

Brian: the first person George saw was Brain. His lacklustre eyes peered at the young guitarist and then lowered to the floor. Without a word, the manager shuffled through the doorway, past George, and slipped into the living room like a chilling breeze. George's vexed gaze flickered back to the doorway and he saw Mimi Smith standing with reverent poise and hard eyes. "Mimi?" George uttered.

"Good afternoon, George." The older woman replied rather breezily. George knew that Mimi had never really admired him in his young age but maybe things were different now. He hoped. He allowed her to pass him and closed the door after her. The narrow hallway was shrouded in darkness once again. He joined Brian and Mimi in the living room and questioned silently to the manager with his weary, brown eyes. Brian only shifted nervously in return; he looked exhausted.

Mimi stood in the centre of the room and, with sad yet clinical eyes, swept her earnest gaze across every bit of furniture and decor. George was thankful she hadn't arrived last night and found two of the four men dedicated to caring for John high off their arses. Remembering suddenly, he scratched his neck in awkwardness and spoke. "Uh, I'll fetch John, shall I?" Brian nodded hurriedly and George zipped out of the tense sitting room with haste.

He was nervous of the state John would be in when he opened the older man's bedroom door. Wheezing slightly, the lead guitarist finished climbing the staircase and ventured down the quiet corridor. As he walked towards John's room, he passed Paul's door and hammered down on its wood, hoping to wake the bassist. He did the same when he passed Ringo's room, finally- and anxiously- arriving at the last bedroom: John's.

Gingerly, the lead guitarist knocked lightly against the wood and tentatively opened the door with a clammy hand. He heard Ringo's door open from behind but George continued to poke his head into John's room. It was messy; clothes and outfits had been strewn across the floor haphazardly, lighters and empty cartons of cigarettes dotted around on cabinets and tables. The curtains were opened but George assumed this was because John had forgotten to close them in the first place. John's classical guitar had been lazily placed on the floor beside a framed photograph of Elvis and a few chord sheets for different songs he couldn't distinguish upon first glance. Stepping further into the room, George finally realised that there was something, or rather someone, missing.

Where was John?

George threw back the covers on the bed and found another cigarette box and what appeared to be a discarded newspaper article, one that looked to have the auburn-haired man's face on it, angry and snarling. George was suddenly reminded of the brief conference meeting in which John nearly hit a reporter. His brow furrowed. Where had John gotten this? Right now, he decided, it didn't matter. He took one last glance at the article and stalked out of the room, back down the corridor. Ringo resembled some sort of living corpse, leaning against the door frame to his bedroom in lethargic fashion. His head of wild, chocolate hair stuck in all directions, his dressing gown hurriedly tied around his waste.

"What's goin' on?" He mumbled. Paul hadn't appeared from his bedroom, George noticed.

The lead guitarist shuffled over to the drummer. "Mimi's 'ere," he whispered earnestly.

Ringo's eyes widened. "Mimi?"

"The one and only, so get dressed, will you? And get Paul up too, the lazy git." George scowled towards the bassist's bedroom door and continued down the hallway hastily. He called back to the drummer before the older man went to get ready. "You seen John around?"

"No," the drummer said with a hushed voice, approaching Paul's door. He looked at George nervously and disappeared into the bassist's bedroom. George sighed.

Continuing down the narrow corridor, George was about to turn back down the stairs when he heard a light murmuring emanate from the bathroom. Creeping as quietly as he could, the young man approached the bathroom door and pressed his ear against the wood, listening intently. He strained to hear the low voice.

"…in 1940, and so was Ringo... Paulie was born in... in 19... 1942," a large sigh commenced, "George was born in 1963... '43. 1943."

George, despite his heart being plagued with despondency, felt the corners of his lips twitch up into a little smile. He knocked on the door and heard John mumble for him to enter.

The bathroom held a slightly misty aura to it, the mirror in the centre of the tiled wall dripping with condensation. He noticed that John had drew a smiling face in the mirror and only hoped that the rhythm guitarist himself was happy and lucid this grave morning.

"Mornin' John," he greeted, applying a false air of contentment, "how are you today?"

John turned from his slightly bent position over the edge of the sink and stared back at the younger man with a hollow face. His auburn hair was in the process of being towel-dried, stuck in every direction, and his eyes had sunk into the recesses of his very skull, it seemed, like he had been deprived of sleep and basic means in order to live. His skin, decorated with a few moles and little blemishes like freckles and marks, had grew an unhealthy shade of white, almost comparable to the pigment of a corpse. George couldn't quite take in the whole sight. Despite John having freshly brushed his teeth and washed his face, his dressing gown still hung with the lingering odour of musky cigarette smoke that had almost become apart of him. His lopsided smile twitched when he took in George's rather timid form standing in the doorway. "Mornin', Georgie," he replied, "I'm okay. How are you?"

The lead guitarist nodded a little stiffly. "I'm good, I 'spose." He shuffled further into the room, his voice lowering in volume. "Um, John, Mimi's downstairs, she wants to see you."

John's crooked smile faltered just a little. George noticed the smiley face pictured on the mirror dripping at the eyes, running and racing down the glass, more like a face of sorrow. "Oh, I didn't know she was comin'... I guess we should go see 'er." He made his way past George and was about to turn down the staircase.

"John, don't you think you should get dressed first?" George advised nervously.

"Oh, yeah!" The older man quickly disappeared into his room with a slam of the door. George winced a little.

"I'll be downstairs, alright John? Ringo and Paul are up 'ere if you need any help." The younger man called. Then, after mentally debating with himself for a moment, he ventured back down the stairs with anxious airs. Arriving back in the living room, he saw Mimi sitting on the old, brown sofa and Brian sipping tea quietly in the armchair; his restless leg bounced lightly off the carpet and his eyes begged to George over the rim of his mug. George smiled politely yet awkwardly at Mimi. "Would you like a cup of-"

"No thank you, Mr Epstein here has already offered me one." She said.

George smiled again, forcefully. "John's just gettin' dressed; 'e should be down soon." He saw Mimi nod and continue to survey the sitting room. The clock on the wall ticked, revealing the time to be nearly one o'clock in the afternoon. They had slept in quite late... George hoped Mimi wouldn't bring that up among other things.

He wondered why Mimi had even bothered showing up. What did anyone expect of John anymore? He was only a shell of his old self. George felt pity and aching, wretched sadness strike his heart whenever he looked at the man. He couldn't go a day, an hour, or even a minute, without maddening regret wading through every pore in his very being. John Lennon was gone. They lived with a ghost, a corpse, re-living archaic and forgotten scraps of time passed, though stuck in the rut of everyday life. John didn't have to carry on like they did; he was in his own little world: George only wished he could join him there.

The sound of footsteps travelled down the stairs and George turned to face the door, along with Mimi and the fretting Brian. George screwed his eyes shut when the door to the living room opened a little and a figure stepped through.

Silence.

The lead guitarist cracked open an eye and saw John's tall frame timidly fiddle with the material of his jumper. His dark eyes were trained on the carpet, his now combed hair shadowing his face slightly in the cloudy afternoon light. George felt Mimi's frail presence step from behind him and almost tiptoe to her beloved nephew.

George couldn't see her face, but her voice shook with a thousand different sorrows. "John?" She called lightly. The rhythm guitarist appeared to hear her but refused to remove his fearful gaze from the floor. "Please, look at me." Said Mimi. When she was close enough, she placed her old hand gently on John's face, her touch so light, as if the man was a precious artefact. John's nervous movement stilted completely, and his watery orbs lifted up to stare at his aunt, as if everything in his mind had suddenly clicked into place. There was a moment of silence before John's able, yet worryingly thin, frame all but crashed into a hug with Mimi, his body trembling with pent up emotion.

Taken back slightly, the older woman soon melted into the embrace and cradled her nephew like she used to all those years before. Her wise, old eyes soon found George's guilty face staring back at her.

John's cries began to bubble into her ear, "Mimi... Mimi... Mimi..." until the woman had to pull away from his crushing hold and look him in the eye earnestly.

"I'm here; I've always been here; I'm not going away again."

George and Brian exchanged nervous, tearful glances.

... ... ...

Ringo and John where quiet, Brian noticed. Not that any of the five frazzled men dotted in the kitchen and the living room were lively, especially in Mimi's stern yet melancholic presence, but the drummer and the rhythm guitarist had barely even exchanged glances since Paul and Ringo had joined them around fifteen minutes later. Paul looked like he had been hung out to dry; his face was tired and wallow, his eyes were bloodshot like a mosaic. Every time he breathed, his chest wheezed and his face scrunched in pain. Brian saw Ringo murmuring to him a few times.

Mimi was still sat on the old sofa; Ringo and Paul were at the kitchen table; George was outside smoking or crying, Brian didn't know which, and John was stood next to the manager quietly, over by the fireplace. Mimi was watching over her nephew carefully, sadly, while John simply stared into the dark coals like they were the answers to all his problems.

Nervously, Brian used a husky tone to try and coax the rhythm guitarist. "Why don't you go sit with your aunt?"

John shook his head no.

"What about Paul?" The manager tried again, "Would you like to talk to him?"

John seemed to hesitate for a moment before mumbling something and shuffled off to the kitchen area, taking a seat next to Paul. The bassist smiled tiredly at him and John scooted a little closer. Brian watched before he heard Mimi's soft croon call him over. Brian swallowed his nerves and sat beside her.

"He's like that sometimes," Mimi said quietly, "you have to give him space. It took me years to learn that, and sometimes I forget... sometimes I think he's still a little boy."

Brian smiled sadly. "Yes," he agreed. His sombre eyes gazed at the older woman's worn, slightly wrinkled hands clutched together. "I'm so sorry. I can't imagine how hard it is for you-"

She chuckled, one that rippled with sorrow. "Oh please, Brian, I've heard enough of that. Condolences are sweet and all, but they won't give me back my John; I lost him the day he picked up the guitar." She looked over to the auburn-haired man talking quietly with the darker-haired lad. Her eyes softened. "But he's got a new family now." Then, she looked back to Brian. "I don't want any more harm to come to him; I need you and your boys to be there for my John when I can't be."

Brian stuttered. "O-Of course, Miss Smith."

"I'm not an expert in this subject," she said, "Pray tell, is there any cure for this?" Her eyes reflected in worry.

"John's physician's have stated that there is nothing we can do." Admitted Brian weakly. "Only exercises and therapy can help. He was prescribed a medication but it only seemed to worsen the effects."

Mimi looked grave. "And is he still on this medication?"

"Well-" suddenly, from the kitchen, a brooding quarrel had boiled up loud and angry. Mimi and Brian turned to see John and Paul in each other's faces, both men refusing to back down. Ringo looked at his wits end, trying to keep John away from Paul but failing miserably. George scrambled in from the garden and scrubbed his eyes, before trying to hold the bassist back against the kitchen counter. Lennon and McCartney snapped at each other from across the kitchen like two rabid fighting dogs. The terror in Mimi's eyes was present, and Brian urged to lads to cease the heated argument desperately. "John, Paul! Stop it this instant."

"Why can't you just be normal like the rest of us?" Paul spat, "If it weren't for you, we could've finished this bloody album by now!"

"Don't you dare say that, Paul, don't you fucking dare!" John snarled. "Or I'll-"

"Or what, eh? What could you possibly do to make things any fuckin' worse?"

Brian stood from the couch, "Stop, now!" but Paul continued, bottled fury seething through him like an erupting volcano.

"You've tore this band apart," his dark voice had quietened but still seemed deafening in the tense atmosphere. "It's your fucking fault we're all like this."

"You think I wanted to be like this, Paul?" John fumed, dark eyes more awake and alive than they had been in a long time. The fire inside them burned with rage, yet glinted with a strange longing. The manager was wary to intervene, but he could see Paul's stance tighten and tense, trembling with effort, while John could easily escape Ringo's hold. "You think that I wanted to forget every good dream I've ever had, every song I've ever wrote, every happy memory? You think I wanted to forget about us, about this band? About you?" The kitchen echoed into silence, the atmosphere so heavy it felt almost suffocating. "You really don't know me, you selfish prick." John whispered in anguish.

Paul's hazel eyes widened a little. His plump lips parted, tears welling in his brown-green orbs like a cloudy day. Suddenly, he appeared deflated, uncurling his fists and loosening his tense muscles. George, feeling that Paul was too hurt emotionally to fight back, removed his strong grip and sighed into the smokey mist of the kitchen. Ringo appeared to do the same but still stayed close to the rhythm guitarist. The building pressure in the room, however, only seemed to erupt when the bassist narrowed his eyes, stepped across the kitchen, and whipped John around the face with his palm; it was too quick to do any damage, but it clapped and ricocheted off the walls like a bullet. John had tears in his eyes.

"Mimi," Paul said, turning his head towards the shocked older woman, "I'm sorry."

Then, he walked silently- almost reverently- to the living room door and let it close behind him with a slam.

The noise was loud enough to mask the choke John released as he wept into Ringo's shoulder.

... ... ...

**(Bloody Hell... this was a long one.**

**Hello there all, so sorry I've been away. I've been working and stressing about exams and all that malarkey. I tried to make this chapter extra long for you all as a sorry and also a thank you. I really appreciate every single comment and vote and review I get! Just knowing that some people even read this makes my day! :)**

**So, yes. This was a bit of a filler, but some juicy things are going to happen soon, don't you worry about it! ;)**

**Thank you so much for reading and I hope you enjoyed this chapter. More will come!**

**Lots of love and hugs,**

**omgringo 3)**


	19. Clarity

"Woah, oh, I never realised what a kiss could be,

This could only happen to me,

Can't you see, can't you see."

John's polished vocals carried throughout the household, the increasing volume of the record almost vibrating the walls of their comfortable home: a house teeming with intensity. Beneath the gently quaking floorboards, gathered in a huddled, wallow atmosphere, there sat two musicians, a manager, and an auntie, each of their eyes low and unblinking.

The manager had a haggard, grim look on his face; he appeared melancholic, with every fibre of his very being drooping under the weight of his stress. He had such a dim, lifeless glow about him that it almost sucked out the entire light that bathed the living room in a cold warmth. His stare watered a little.

One of the musicians had ran out of cigarettes, his last cancer stick finished and burnt, abandoned in the ash tray in the centre of table. His fingers, shimmering from the jewellery decorated on them, rolled and padded gently against the checked cloth like barren branches shaking in a winter breeze. His other hand was bunched up in his russet hair, his azure orbs gazing into nothingness.

The other musician was trembling slightly. He had the disposition of a frightened animal- a deer caught in the headlights- as he watched the inside of his eyelids. He grit his fang-like teeth and clenched his fist every time the clock ticked by. He flinched lightly, sporadically.

The older woman had a face tired from years of hard graft. She was self-contained, rather solid, but tearing at the seams. Her slightly wrinkled face had melted a little in her despair, the light in her clinical orbs a dull, mottled shimmer of macabre. She felt the last fleeting, dying ripples of joy wade through her mind, before they faded away back into the cold, dark recesses of her subconscious, only to be uncovered when tragedy might next befall her. Her stare lingered a little longer than it should have.

"That when I tell you that I love you, oh,

You're gonna say you love me too, oh,

And when I ask you to be mine,

You're gonna say you love me too."

Ringo's blue orbs clouded with guilt and unwavering sadness. In his blissful ignorance, he thought that things were on the mend; John would master the guitar once again, recover his memories, and perhaps the growing tension between Lennon and McCartney would subside when their feelings were shared. But that hadn't been the case.

It had all happened so fast. John shuffled idly over to the table, sat close to Paul's weakened body, and kept silent. Ringo and Paul had been discussing more song ideas for the album, what covers they could do. Paul even suggested to the drummer that he could have a track on the record. Then, John started suggesting all these old rock 'n' rollers they used to listen to back in the day with growing enthusiasm, lost in a daydream of nostalgic haze. Ringo thought it could grow into a potentially fun idea, perhaps even helping to replenish the band's grievances with one another.

Paul's brows furrowed a little. "Yeah, maybe..."

"Really?" John asked. Ringo sensed John's lucidity had graced him. The problem with that being, Paul and the others sometimes found themselves talking in a rather condescending manner to the rhythm guitarist- accidentally, of course- because they themselves were often questioning whether John was 'present' with them or not. One minute, he could be attentive and alert, as crystal as a cool night's breeze or a calm lake, and the next he was drifting into another space completely, far too deep inside his own head to comprehend any matters concerning him, let alone hold a conversation; the Beatles felt they were almost constantly having to tread on eggshells.

"Sure we will," the bassist smiled. He patted John's hand with his own and then promptly returned to his conversation with the drummer. Ringo blinked at his rudeness, quickly scrambling to try and include John, who looked hurt by Paul's disinterest.

"Hey," he chortled a little breathlessly, shaking his head when Paul cocked a perfect eyebrow, "That's a good idea, John; we should do that for the album, definitely." But it appeared that the damage had been done.

"You don't think it's a good idea?" He asked in the open, though his question was aimed at Paul, who had quickly managed to paste a light scowl on his tired features. Ringo knew that the already boiling tension had started to bubble once again.

The drummer tried to intervene. "He didn't say tha-"

"If I'm honest, John," Paul muttered, "I don't think it's a good idea, not really. On our last album, we had all originals; we can't dedicate a whole record to covers, now can we?" The bassist had adopted a snarky tone that sounded grating on Ringo's ears. He saw John's face twist in annoyance.

"Well why not?" John said. "It could be-"

"It's not about us," Paul interrupted, "at the end of the day, it's about the sales, it's about money." He narrowed his pretty, hazel eyes in frustration, and Ringo thought the look of bitterness didn't suit him. "Do you really think people are gonna wanna buy our records if we have nothin' new to offer?"

"Last time I checked, Paul, I was the one who made this band." John muttered seethed.

"Yeah, well it's not like you're in the position to make any decisions right now, John." He tapped his bony finger against his skull and widened his eyes, as if taunting the older man.

"Hey!" Ringo snapped. Even for Paul, that was quite a low blow. The quarrel was getting heated; the drummer could see John's fists clench and he knew that any moment now one of the famous Lennon/McCartney partnership would explode. It was a tough call for who would go first.

John snarled. "Oh fuck off, you queer twat."

That was it.

"Why can't you just be normal like the rest of us?" Paul spat, "If it weren't for you, we could've finished this bloody album by now!"

Ringo didn't know whether 'normal' was what everyone else thought it to be, and once again, he quickly speculated on events that could have happened between the two musicians. They never used to argue, now all of a sudden they couldn't have a conversation without someone having a meltdown. Then, he was brought back to the present by John's fierce roar.

"Don't you dare say that, Paul, don't you fucking dare! Or I'll-"

"Or what, eh?" Paul bit back. Ringo had to all but throw himself against John's chest to try and break them apart. "What could you possibly do to make things any fuckin' worse?" George had appeared and was trying to pull Paul drummer heard Brian's shocked voice shout at them from the living room.

"Stop, now!"

"You've tore this band apart," Paul hissed, suddenly growing quiet. Ringo felt John tighten against him. "It's your fucking fault we're all like this."

"You think I wanted to be like this, Paul?" John fumed, and Ringo felt his anger ripple through his chest as he spoke. "You think that I wanted to forget every good dream I've ever had, every song I've ever wrote, every happy memory? You think I wanted to forget about us, about this band? About you?" The drummer clung to every word John breathed in that dark voice of his. "You really don't know me, you selfish prick."

Paul's face, like a landslide, fell. His piercing, hazel orbs suddenly grew soft and pensive, sorrowful, as if a brooding storm had passed. George, who had been holding onto Paul for dear life, finally released him when the dark-haired man wobbled a bit on his heels, shaken by the force of John's heated words. Ringo let go too. It was silent, but only for a moment.

The bassist stepped quickly, the storm in his eyes crashing louder and angrier than it had before, and he whipped John across the face with such speed that it left the other Beatles dizzy. He let his burning stare penetrate every morsel of the older man. He muttered something to Mimi- Ringo was so shocked he didn't even hear it- and then he was after, when Ringo and Mimi had managed to nurse him half-way back to lucidity, John had disappeared upstairs to his room. He'd been playing his records loud enough that it could drown the noise of his crying. Perhaps the music could drown his demons.

Brian rubbed a hand down his face. "Maybe we shouldn't have come," he sighed. Mimi kept her eyes on the carpet.

George shook his head. "They were gettin' on each other's nerves for a while; it was bound to 'appen sometime." His voice held a rather monotone quality to it, Ringo thought. "Where d'ya think Paul's gone?"

"God knows," the manager muttered solemnly, "perhaps off to a bar somewhere."

"At... 2 o'clock in the afternoon?"

"I wouldn't doubt it,"

Ringo sighed into his palms, eyes slowly closing in fatigue. If only he could climb into bed and dodge all his responsibilities forever; if only this had never happened; if only he had never been born. He must have let out a groan louder than he expected because he felt the lead guitarist's thin hand gently touch his forearm. Ringo's indigo eyes met George's sincere mahogany in a brief gaze, one that was filled with longing, and understanding, and grief. Ringo realised he wasn't alone in his melancholy.

"I thought Paul and John were friends," Mimi said quietly, barely loud enough for Brian to hear her, let alone George and Ringo. "Like brothers, even."

Ringo winced: if only she knew.

"They are," George replied, "we're all brothers; brothers fight sometimes." His weak voice rang out in the pregnant atmosphere as the sound of the record travelled through the floorboards. For miles, it seemed like the only sound.

... ... ...

Despite the sun shining, the air that nibbled at Paul's bony fingers was cold and bitter, like his mind. He continued to smoke, to suck the end of the cigarette hungrily, angrily, like the nicotine was the answer to every question, every problem, he ever had.

It wasn't his fault: it was all John's fault. He was the one to come up with stupid, thoughtless ideas. He was the one who had succumbed to invalidity, to idiocy, to a neurological lethargy that dragged the other Beatles down with him. John was selfish. John was oblivious to his melancholy, to everything, and it wasn't fucking fair.

As he crossed a quiet road, unknowing to the destination he was headed, he flicked the ash off the tobacco stick hastily, drawing another wheezing breath. No one cared like he did. They were selfish. They couldn't see past John's inflated ego, his pity-dwelling; it made Paul feel ill. They couldn't see past John's shit like he could.

Soon, Paul found himself on a high street. There were a few shops where couples mulled around. The bassist felt a negative air radiate off his skin like a scent. He walked forward.

"Excuse me?"

Paul turned, hazel eyes gazing at a pair of rich, chocolate orbs. For a brief millisecond, he thought it was John. "Y-Yes, love?" He recovered swiftly as he took another drag of the cigarette.

"Could I have an autograph?" A young woman said. She whipped out a worn scrap of paper quickly, her brown eyes sparkling.

Paul patted down his coat. "I don't 'ave a pen," he replied.

The girl looked crestfallen. "Oh," she sighed, "me neither."

"Sorry," Paul apologised. He threw his burnt cigarette to the ground and rubbed it out with the tip of his shoe.

"Could I... could I have a hug?"

Paul's dark head up hair whipped in the wind as he looked back at the girl once again. He saw John's eyes staring back at him. "Erm..." he stuttered, "Yeah... o-of course."

Delighted, the slightly smaller woman grasped Paul's shoulders in a warm hug, tight and loving. It shrouded Paul from the chilly breeze, and he felt his throat close up a little in longing, his eyes pool with stinging tears that he refused to let fall. His breathing realised, as the girl held on to his slim body in that awkward hug, that it was him: that John needed him, and he needed John, and that it was his fault, it was all Paul's fault.

Paul clutched tighter. He felt the girl's grip become loose, as if she felt the hug was over, but Paul didn't want to let go. If he let go, he would have to look into those brown eyes again and think of John: sweet, beautiful John. The tears in Paul's eyes began to blind him a little, until he blinked and he felt them drip down his face. His throat was on fire.

"Are you... are you okay?" The woman whispered.

Paul shook his head, voice cracking as he replied. "Not really, love, but thank you."

The girl seemed to melt into Paul again, with a confused chortle. "It's... it's okay." She rubbed his back comfortingly.

They stood in the cold wind a little longer, two strangers wrapped in a deep embrace.

... ... ...

The record had stopped playing long finally found himself sitting on the floor, head tipped back to the ceiling, spine pressed against the board of the bed lazily. The man blinked and wiped away some of the drool that had started to dribble down his cheek.

White ceiling. White walls; he thought he was back in the hospital for a moment, before he saw the record player on the floor. He rubbed his eyes with the back of his sleeve and felt his cheek sting a little.

The man groaned lightly as he stumbled up from the floor and shuffled over to his bed, setting down on it lazily. He tucked himself under the sheets and breathed in the scent of stale cigarettes, burying his head further into the pillow. He pulled out the old newspaper from under the bedsheets and studied it.

'BEATLE JOHN SUFFERS BREAKDOWN'

It was right on the cover in black and white for everyone to see. In the photograph, he had an angry face, those two raven eyes burning into the camera lens with rage. John could almost feel the flash blind him. He vaguely remembered Ringo pulling him away from a cowardly reporter. He remembered running, crying. He remembered Paul holding him tightly. He remembered Paul's warmth, his scent. John longed to be held again.

John remembered Paul's twisted features and a hand whipping him around the face. He remembered and felt the heat from the fire crackling in his hazel eyes. He remembered, and wished he could forget.

He fished out a cigarette from a carton on his bedside table. With trembling fingers, he eventually lit it and watched the cherry glow a fearsome orange. It was hypnotic.

"Have another cigarette, maybe you'll forget," he sang lightly. His voice cracked like a shattering mirror. He took another drag.

He felt alone. His friends were wary of him; why would they want to be around someone who could barely remember their names? Even his memories had abandoned him. Everything he loved had went away.

He smoked, only thing he had left was this cigarette, and eventually that would burn away too.

"They all go away in the end," John whispered, eyes never once blinking away from the tobacco stick clutched in his shaking rested his head on the pillow, watching the cigarette burn. He heard something but didn't look up.

"John," a voice said. John noticed he hadn't heard the door open or close, he hadn't heard footsteps, yet there certainly was a presence in the room with him. The voice sounded young. John finally peeled his eyes away from the cigarette and looked around the bedroom, only to find nothing.

He sat up, using his elbows to prop his upper body forwards. "What?" He questioned to himself, confused. Being nearly blind without his glasses, John had to squint just to make out the shapes of furniture that cluttered his room, yet he saw no one.

"Johnny..." there it was again- a voice, as if it belonged to a little boy. He couldn't distinguish it... "John, listen to me."

John's brow furrowed in perplexity. He felt scared. Was this another 'delusion' Doctor Rigby mentioned? He seemed to be having a few of those. Or was it a hallucination? John was suddenly too fearful to think clearly. "Who's there?" He uttered, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

"You love him," the voice whispered. It carried through John's mind like a breeze. "You should have told him when you had the chance: before this ever happened."

"What the fuck are you?" John growled, louder now. The voice seemed to float all around him, in every corner of his mind. It was loud. John winced.

"I've been locked inside you for far too long, John; I've seen it all, everything. I know what you think about him. I've seen your dreams. I've listened to your deepest, darkest desires; you're quite a horny, little bastard, aren't you?" The voice had gained a dangerous tone to it, and it sounded almost sick coming from such a young boy.

John paled, eyes widening. He sat on the edge of the bed with his heart pounding in his ears. "W-What... How-"

"John, you've gone mad, face it. You're a queer lunatic, devoid of any reason, devoid of life, friendless, alone. It's only you and I now."

"But Paul-"

"Paul doesn't want you. He doesn't need you. No one needs you. Do you honestly think they want someone as useless as you around them?"

"They-"

"Do you!?"

John's tone cracked. "No..." He looked up at the ceiling again with watery eyes and heaved a large sigh. "I just want to feel loved." He whispered.

The voice was silent.

The rhythm guitarist took one final drag of the cigarette before rubbing it out in the ash tray. He sighed again and buried his face in his palms, hearing the door creak open slowly. "John? Are you alright, dear?"

"Why do you care?" John muttered back sourly in response.

"Well that's no way to talk to your aunt, you cheeky lad."

John looked up then. "Mimi..."

The older woman, who stood gingerly in the doorway with a half-hearted smile, nodded. Her eyes were sad. She looked nervously at her nephew and then down at the cluttered floor, smirking in melancholy. "You haven't changed a bit, still living in a messy room." Her warm orbs flickered over to John again. "May I come in?"

John nodded. Mimi wandered silently over to her nephew, trying to avoid stepping on cigarette cartons and items of clothing that had been strewn on the carpet carelessly. Comparable to his life, John's room was a complete mess; Mimi surveyed the scene with a wariness like she was walking through the debris of a bombed out house.

Finally, the older woman sat down on the bed next to John and smiled at him. It was a rather melancholy smile, one that didn't reach the eyes. She patted John on the knee gently. "How are you?"

"Good," John lied.

Mimi's brow furrowed slightly. She lowered her voice, waiting for a minute before speaking. "How... How often does Paul hit you?"

John shook his head. "Never." His eyes reflected with the memory of the slap and the child's voice taunting him. He wanted Paul to love him.

Mimi looked concerned. "I don't want him to do that to you again; it's not right. You're supposed to be friends."

"He won't. He said he was sorry."

"To me, not to you-"

"He's sorry. I know he is."

There was silence. It was louder than anything John had ever heard. It suffocated him, and he was momentarily glad when Mimi spoke again."Brian's a nice man, isn't he?" She kept her voice quiet, hoping to create an aura of calm in the wild sea that raged in John's mind.

"Yeah," came the mumbled reply.

"He was telling me about your, erm... therapy."

"Yeah?"

Mimi tried to look John in the eye, having to slightly bend to catch a glimpse of his face shadowed by his wild moptop. "How's it going?"

John's mind suddenly echoed with Brian's shouts. He closed his eyes tightly, trying to fight off the image of Paul and him kissing on that bench when they were teenagers. "It's... alright." He choked.

"Is the doctor good to you?" Mimi inquired. "Has he said anything about you being able to tour?"

John opened his eyes again. "She hasn't, no-"

"She?" The older woman said, "Your doctor is a lady?" Mimi's aging, watery eyes glinted with intrigue.

"Yes. She's called Doctor Rigby." John felt as though he was in a session right in that moment, with all the questions he had to answer.

"Well why didn't you say before? That's brilliant!"

John frowned a little. "I don't understand," he replied, "what's so good about it?"

"Maybe all you needed was a woman by your side, John. Being surrounded by lads is good and all, but maybe that's why you're so tense... a girl would be better for you." Mimi explained gently.

John's heart sank a little. Weren't there enough girls screaming his name outside his hotel rooms? Was Mimi saying he wasn't supposed to have his friends? The only people that were there for him? "I... I can't have me mates?" The man uttered.

It was the older woman's turn to look panicked then. "No, no! Of course you can have your friends... I just think that finding someone you can be with... in a relationship might really help."

"Doctor Rigby...?"

"She could talk to you about it, maybe, give you advice. Maybe you could even ask her to dinner." Mimi smiled and held her nephew's coarse hand in her slightly wrinkled one. "You have been single for quite a while."

John gazed into her face, his brown orbs like stars on a dark night, piercing and bright. His mouth hung open slightly. "Is it real?" He mumbled in anguish, searching into Mimi's glazed eyes desperately. "Is anything even real anymore?"

The woman, grasped her hold tighter around John's trembling digits. She grounded him with her stare, lucid and strong. "Yes, John, it's real, and you don't give up: no matter what." She swallowed the painful lump in her throat as best she could. "You're here for me and I'm here for you, okay? We don't give up."

John nodded, feeling numb, deathly afraid that it was already too late.

... ... ...

Paul arrived home two hours later, only to find he and George were the only ones left in the house. George was sitting at the kitchen table, smoking quietly. Paul could smell the bitter-sweet musk of the burning tobacco and felt it pass through his lungs.

The bassist had noticed that a lot of things had changed during John's failing recovery. He started noticing that everyone smoked a lot more; perhaps this was to suffocate the pain they felt inside. He noticed Ringo's distressing sleeping pattern had started to show on the drummer's usually youthful face. The eldest of the Beatles had dark, drooping eye bags that weighed down his face, his skin had grew pale and lost its plump elasticity, now frail and hollow on his bones. He noticed that none of them had eaten a proper meal together in what seemed like weeks. Paul noticed a lot of things.

He hadn't noticed, however, how low George youngest of the pop group had never really looked particularly happy, but he always had a gleam in his burnt, brown eyes. His smile could light up an entire room, yet he hadn't smiled for what felt like an eternity. His thick, breezy laugh hadn't graced any of their ears in such a long time. The lead guitarist, usually referred to as the 'quiet' Beatle, had indeed gone quiet. He was paper thin. Paul wondered, panicked silently, when he had last eaten. He wondered if that was the reason George had been smoking more: to try and lessen his hunger, and to indulge in destroying himself slowly.

Paul wondered about a lot of things, too. His mind always swam with questions that could never truly be answered, and it left him as stilted and confused as the very first time he had kissed John Lennon.

"Are you gonna sit down or just stand there?" Came a hollow voice: George's finally woke from his daydream and carried his sorrowful gaze over to the younger man. He let his hazel eyes stare for a moment longer before he slowly shuffled over to the kitchen table and sat across from George. He rubbed his bony hands, trying to warm them from the chilly day outside.

Neither of them spoke for a while, smothered in melancholy, as the smoke from George's cigarette clouded the room. Paul opened his mouth, his dry lips making a smacking sound as they popped open, but he closed them, having nothing to say. Finally, George broke the silence. "If you're wonderin'," he muttered, dark eyes vacant and dull in the dim room, "Mimi and Brian took John to a therapy session about two hours ago. Ringo went out somewhere not long after."

"Where?" Paul asked quietly.

"I don't know: somewhere." George sighed.

Again, they lapsed into silence, as if the quiet was an ocean drowning them. Paul slid out another cigarette from his pocket and lit it without a word.

"Why'd you do it, eh?"

Paul looked at George, slightly puzzled. "Do wha'?"

George had adopted a snarl. "Why did you fuckin' hit him?" Both men could feel the tension build as they continued to stare at each other, their eyes hindered barely by the smoke.

Then, the bassist frowned. "Because he fuckin' deserved it, that's why-"

"In front of his aunt?"

Paul paused, only for a minute, trying to fathom all his racing thoughts into words. "You... You heard what 'e said." He choked a little, his ears burning in anger.

"Yeah, but you didn't need to hit him, Paul!" George snapped. His tone was like a tired father scolding his child. "We don't fuckin' hit each other."

"But John hit Ringo..." Paul muttered sourly.

"I know 'e did," the younger man said, "and he was wrong to do that. Why do we all have to turn on each other at a time like this?" His mocha orbs were sober and rippling. "We should be helping each other, not hurtin' each other."

Paul noticed that, even as the youngest Beatle, George was the oldest at heart: the most level-headed. While he turned to drink, and Ringo turned to drugs, and John turned to little, yellow pills, George turned a blind eye to it all. George may have cried to himself every night, but he was stronger than all of them put together.

His dark, grating eyes looked through Paul in disappointment. "Try to understand what he's goin' through, alright? Before you and Ritchie came downstairs, he was trying to remember the years we were born, Paul; he even struggles with that." Paul's hazel eyes were downcast as he took another drag from the cigarette. His raven hair hung over his face a little, hindering the tight grimace on his tired features.

"I always thought it was his fault... maybe it's mine."

George's cumbersome features loosened slightly into sorrow. "Don't say that; it's no one's fault except that bastard driver's."

"But everything else that has happened," the bassist said, "it's always been my wrong-doing, y'know?" He wasn't even smoking anymore, just watching the cigarette placed in the groove of the ash tray burning out slowly. "John nearly died 'cause of me. He ran away because of me! I've done nothing but hurt him."

"Remember when he locked himself in that bathroom durin' that press conference?" George reminded. "Even Brian couldn't get him to come out, but you did."

Paul's grave stare met with George's.

The lead guitarist continued, "He trusts you, Paul, probably more than he trusts anyone else. Are you gonna let some stupid disagreement about a fuckin' album come between you and John's friendship?"

Paul had really started to feel the guilt well inside of him. He regretted ever taking John for granted. "I bet he doesn't even like me anymore after what I've done."

"Are you kiddin'?" The younger man bellowed. "He was off his head when you left, stressin' about whether you wanted to be in the band anymore, and if you loved him, or somethin' like that."

Paul swallowed. "Love?"

George continued to talk through the cigarette smoke he exhaled, "Yeah, he kept talkin' about love; it sounded a bit queer to me but I bet he didn't mean it like that. You know, his head was all over the place; he probably didn't even know what 'e was sayin'." George rubbed out his tobacco stick in the ash tray, suddenly noticing how quiet and pale Paul looked. "You alright there, Paul? You look white as a sheet."

Nodding absently, the bassist mumbled. "Yeah... I'm fine." He added in a quick, lacklustre smile to try and convince the younger man. He knew it didn't work but it got George to shut up for a bit, before he heard the front door open and the wind whistle through the house again. The bassist shot a swift glance at the lead guitarist, his eyes knife-like and small with worry. George only grimaced lightly back at him when they heard the jangle of keys rattle like bones through the house. The door closed.

Footsteps padded lightly through the hall and into the living room, where Brian, Mimi, and John saw George and Paul sitting at the kitchen table, the room smoky and tense. Brian's distressed, azure eyes rippled in Paul's direction when he gently started to coax the wearily silent John over to the sofa. All three of them looked positively exhausted.

Paul didn't speak, but George did. "How did the session go?" He asked rather nervously.

When John was seated, Brian ruffled a worn hand through the musician's wild hair and stepped through to the kitchen. He shook his head earnestly at George, before turning his head back to the sitting room. "Mimi, can you take off John's coat please," he asked politely, casting his tired glance over the silent man.

"Of course," she responded softly, "come on, John; you don't need this on anymore."

While she was doing that, Brian took a seat with his two boys at the table and ran a hand down his face. "I spoke to Doctor Robert again..." Brian said quietly. "He said we've been neglecting John's memory and educational training." His voice was low, gravely, haggard; George had never heard the manager sound so weary. "He said if John continues the way he is, at this rate we're running the risk of having to go to a specialist, perhaps commit him to a hospital for a short period of time."

George was outraged, "They can't do that, he's fine!"

The manager shook his head, fixing the lead guitarist with a cold stare. "If we ignore the problem, he could get worse." His forehead was tight in a frown. "It's a godsend that it was only a closed fracture to begin with, anything else and he'd still be in the hospital."

"Did you talk to Doctor Rigby?" Asked Paul with a hushed voice.

Brian nodded. "John had a session with her. She said… she said the delusions are getting worse."

George and Paul frowned at each other. "How?" The younger man asked quietly. "What does that mean?"

"It means that he thinks people are talking to him, when they aren't even there. He keeps saying that people are out to kill him. He thinks you're trying to kick him out of the band."

The three men at the table all quietened, the atmosphere tense and pregnant with icy tendrils of worry. Paul cast his sorrowful, hazel glance at John who stood at the window in the living room; the rhythm guitarist's shoulders were slightly hunched over, as if the weight of his own toil burdened him. Mimi had hung his coat out in the hallway and now watched her nephew from the doorway, her old eyes heavy with disdain. Paul looked back over to his younger bandmate.

"Did she say how we can stop it? The hallucinations? The delusions?" The bassist asked.

Brian sighed. "Anti-psychotic medication is a possibility, but she said that John's case stems from his own repressed issues and now his brain injury. There's nothing she can really do about the latter."

George's mocha eyes were low, as was his tone. "Only more therapy?"

"Unfortunately,"

"And John might have to go to a hospital?"

The manager picked at the skin on his fingers. "Perhaps," he said, "if he gets any worse."

Paul took the oppurtunity of bleak silence to glance over to his friend again. He felt a sense of dread eat away at his insides when he saw how lost and fragile his John looked. Before the accident, the slightly older Beatle always had a grin on his lips and a gleam in his eye; the only grin John ever wore now was the one when Paul had slipped him his night pill, his mind growing fuzzy and weightless, falling into blissful unconciousness: dead to the world.

"What did you talk about in the session?" Paul heard George ask, though the bassist was too busy staring at the rhythm guitarist to listen in fully.

Brian droned on a bit, his voice teetering on the edge of hopelessness. "About his mother, the band, about Paul- Paul? Paul what are you…?"

The dark-haired, doe-eyed Beatle had stood from his seat and had slowly started to make his way over to the auburn-haired man standing as still as a stone. Brian grew quiet when Paul reached out his hand to touch John and George was readying himself to intervene when it all kicked off.

John jittered a little as Paul's meek hand graced his shoulder. His foggy, brown eyes bugged out a tiny bit, but soon relaxed when he found Paul's serene hazel ones staring back at him.

The bassist eased his palm down onto John's forearm and closed around it gently as if he was grasping a precious artifact. Without a word, Paul started to easily pull him along as the two men silently shuffled out of the living room and into the hall. John stood, quiet and apprehensive, as Paul took his coat off the hanger and started to slide it onto him carefully.

"Where are you taking him?" Mimi asked breezily from the sitting room doorway. Her kind, old eyes were clouded a little in concern. Paul finished helping John put on his coat and buttoned it up for the older man.

The bassist looked at Mimi in a quaint kind of gratefulness, and smiled with a small mouth. "We're going for a drive," he answered. He then took his arm and nestled it behind John's back, guiding him over to the front door. John only blinked back at Mimi. "We'll be back soon," Paul reassured, opening the door.

"Bye, Mimi," John said as he was shuffled out into the bleak day outside, followed by Paul.

The door closed.

… … …

About half an hour into the drive, John had dozed off. Ringo had told Paul that he and John had stayed awake 'till around 4 o'clock in the morning, so it was no surprise that the rhythm guitarist had fallen asleep.

Paul hadn't a clue where he was even going. At first he was just taking a spin around the centre of London but it seemed too bustling- even for him- so he pulled off the main roads and started heading for some of the quieter areas. Neither of them had talked. Paul wanted to ask John about all the things George had mentioned. He thought back to the time when John had locked them both in that blasted storage room and tried to get at him. He remembered when he fell asleep in John's arms after getting totally hammered and kissing him.

He wondered if he was developing feelings for his best friend- a man, no less. He wondered if John was gay.

Paul frowned, trying to concentrate on the road rather than his swimming thoughts.

He couldn't be gay could he? More to the point, was Paul himself gay? All the times Paul and John had shared a few drunken kisses and hugs and slept in the same bed… did that mean that Paul had feelings of attraction towards John? The bassist had to admit, he often found himself staring at his older friend, but usually he thought nothing of it... that was just looking, not fantasising. He was just looking, right?

Looking at the way John's muddy eyes glimmered in the sun, the way the deep, brown hue shimmered into a hypnotic burgandy whenever rays of light streamed across his face. The way the wind tickled his hair and blew it across his head like it was weightless. The way the freckles and moles on his cheeks looked like constellations and clutters of stars. The way his nose crinkled when he concentrated, or how it looked pressed against the window as he slept-

Paul had to speedily snap his gaze back to the road.

No... Paul wasn't gay. Maybe he just fancied John a bit. That didn't mean he was a queer.

He couldn't imagine John being in a hospital. In fact, he hated the idea of it. John didn't belong in a place like that… he wasn't as bad as that, was he? He was on the mend…

The bassist wished he could just see into his friend's mind, just for a minute, just to see how isolated John really was.

By this point in the day, the sun was starting to go down a little. There were peachy clouds smothering the sky and a red sun peaking over some of the lower trees Paul drove past. They were nearing the countryside. The bassist hoped he hadn't gotten them lost but he didn't really care if they had gotten lost either. As long as he was with John, he didn't really care about anything else.

Paul slowed his speed a little and began to admire his snoozing companion once again. He felt regret and shame rise to the back of his throat like a wave of bile; he would never hit John ever again.

He smiled, and, in his dreamy distracted state, started to slowly drift onto the other side of the road.

The sound of a horn pierced the peaceful air of the countryside.

... ... ...

(Hello everyone! A bit of a cliff hanger, I know...

I'm sorry if this chapter is more filler (boo) but I PROMISE you that there will be some more excitement soon... perhaps some long awaited McLennon ;-)

ANYWAY, thank you so much for reading this chapter. I'd love to hear what you think of it! Thanks so much; I appreciate every comment I get.

With that said, I'll see you next time!

Lots of love,

omgringo)


	20. The Guilt

**WARNING: THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS SEXUAL CONTENT. IF YOU ARE UNCOMFORTABLE WITH THIS, DO NOT READ. THANK YOU.**

... … …

John's groggy eyes splintered open when his ears were attacked by the deafening sound of a horn. It ripped through his thinning serenity, his previously limp fingers hurriedly pressing against his panicked orbs, too frightened out of his mind to watch the scene unfold before him. His throat ripped open with the scream he couldn't hold back. "We're gonna die! We're gonna fucking die!"

Bright white lights burnt through the windshield, rendering the two men nearly completely blind for a moment as both musicians shrieked in panic. The horn was pounding in John's ears. The screech and smell of burning rubber assaulted him as he felt the vehicle swerve sharply to the left. A loud, dangerous crash followed, a noise that sounded far too close for comfort, and the shrieking horn of the truck plowing towards them shortly faded down the road as the car sped along.

After a few beats of fearful, pregnant silence, save for Paul's panting breaths and the hum of the engine, the rhythm guitarist removed his palms covering his eyes and let his scared gaze shift over to the bassist beside him.

Paul's fingers were curled so tightly around the steering wheel that his digits were an ivory white and his arms were trembling likes leaves in an autumn breeze. His hazel orbs were so wide in panic they looked about to pop out of his skull. His breaths shuddered in and out hurriedly like hot glass in his throat, and his whole body was tensed like a spring.

John saw that the mirror on the drivers door had disappeared: it had been ripped off by the force of the passing lorry, gone and forgotten, down the road, where it lay shattered into broken pieces.

The two musicians jittered in their seats, shaken into shocked silence from the near catastrophe that had struck them. They could have died; they could have fucking died right in that moment, and they wouldn't have been able to do anything about it. No medication, no therapy, no drink or drug could cure death, even with all the money in the world.

Yet, here they were, unscathed, not a single scratch on them, nor a hair out of place: as if it had never happened. John felt a shaky, trembling laugh rattle through his wheezing chest and bubble up in his aching throat until it split the air. He hadn't noticed that Paul had pulled over, until the only noise to be heard for miles around was his own hysterical glee. The laugh died on his throat, and finally his hectic, mocha orbs met Paul's sober ones of hazel.

The bassist continued earnestly to stare with scrutiny, until he quickly shrugged himself out of the car and slammed the door. He checked how badly the truck had clipped the side of the vehicle and ran his fingers along the scratch that decorated the paint on the outer door like a scar.

John watched him pace along, the slightly younger man muttering and cursing to himself when he inspected the untidy remains of the broken mirror that had been demolished by the truck. Luckily, Paul had been able to veer out of its path quick enough before it destroyed the whole car with them inside.

But, if Paul was such a good driver, he wouldn't have risked their lives like that in the first place, right?

John frowned, feeling a finger of chilly breeze caress his ear. He shook his head lightly. That was ridiculous; Paul wasn't trying to kill him... he just got distracted.

From behind him, the rhythm guitarist heard the voice again. It said something about Paul's real intentions but, before John could disagree, the bassist tugged on the car door again.

Paul climbed back into the car, face ashen and drawn into a tight frown: a face comparable to a brooding calm right before a thunder storm. John's grip tightened on his car seat, his breathing quickening through his nose, his throat dry and sore from his scream. He looked, and saw Paul's small lips open and close a little, murmured and whispered nothings never meeting John's ears.

Finally, after the frosty ice of silence had chilled them to their bones, the bassist said, "Why are we friends?"

John's mind began to race with millions of answers, numbers on such an improbable scale, so unfathomable, that it seemed to make him mute. He tried to speak, but only a crackle of husky confusion made it past his lips. "Wha…?"

Paul's tired form darkened under the wilting heartache that plagued his soul. He breathed. "Why are we friends… when I always end up hurting you?"

"You…" the rhythm guitarist murmured, "You don't hurt me- "

"I do, John." Paul turned his head of raven hair to look the other man in the eye. Once sunny and warm, his hazel orbs were harrowing, lifeless, tired. The deep bags under his eyes made his youthful, charming baby face appear haggard and aged. His eyes were semi-bloodshot, and they stared at John- through him- and into his foggy mind.

John felt all the answers swimming in his cognitive thought processors evaporate into nothingness. The pathway between his brain and his tongue tied into knots and kinks before finally snapping in two like a broken guitar string. His eyes began to irritate "I… I…" he stuttered, his heartbeat thumping in his ears.

"Oh, don't bloody start with that now," Paul muttered, slumping away from the older man. The light was fastly fading and the sun had started to set behind the trees. The two musicians were in their respective corners of the car. The bassist's eyes glimmered moodily in the fading sunset. "You always have to turn on the bloody water works, don't you?"

John swallowed thickly. "I'm not fuckin' crying, softlad." His hollow tone had quickly gained a defensive stance, his eyebrows drawn together in an angry tightness. "Why do you always have to be so bitter about everythin'?"

"I ain't bein' bitter!" Paul scoffed, "If you want bitter, talk to George, he's the one who hates your guts-"

Silence. Paul swiftly shut his mouth. John's angry eyes melted into hurt. He dropped his chin to his chest.

Paul quickly recovered from his verbal slip. "That's not true… I didn't mean that!" Now his body was twisted to face the rhythm guitarist. His eyes were wide and begging. "I didn't fucking mean that, Johnny, George loves you." His tone peaked in desperation.

"Okay,"

"No, you have to fucking believe me," the bassist urged, "I didn't mean that; George loves you, he's your brother, we all love you-"

"Do you love me, Paul?"

Paul stumbled on his breath for a moment. His lips teetered open and closed. "O-Of course I do, what are you talking about?"

"Love," John said calmly, "it's everywhere."

Paul's hazel eyes narrowed a little in confusion.

The slightly older man continued. "It's been here for millions upon billions of years, stories of love told in the oldest novels, on the telly, on the radio- we even fuckin' sing about love, Paul: we're surrounded by it."

The bassist nodded slowly. "Yeah, we are, I suppose, but what… what are you trying to say?"

John seemed to reflect briefly, his dark eyes seemingly watering with a waging pensiveness. "What I'm tryin' to say is… uh… okay: I'm just gonna come out with it because it's drivin' me mad and I'm quite fuckin' barmy already.

"We've known each other for… years, yeah? We're very close, aren't we?" John started and Paul nodded quietly in agreement. "And lately, um… lately I've been feeling that maybe I feel… closer to you- closer than a friend."

The bassist had a rather frightened look in his eyes. He looked so little- perhaps it was because he had never seen John so feeble and vulnerable looking. The older man trembled like a leaf in the path of a heavy wind. John had never been like this; he was supposed to be the rag-tag charming teddy boy, yet here he was with teary eyes and a lump in his throat, trying to confess his feelings for Paul: for a MAN.

The rhythm guitarist paused. "What are we?"

Confused, the doe-eyed musician made a smothered noise. "We're friends… aren't we?"

John looked down at his thin hands. "Are we?"

There was a cold silence. Paul chortled with a panicked breath. What was John getting at? "Of course we fuckin' are-"

"I like you." John said.

Paul blinked. "Uh, I like you too," he frowned. John sighed heavily.

"No- I like you Paul, I'm… I'm in love… with you... I think."

The slightly younger man didn't breathe for a good few moments, his heart hammering in his chest and his mind reeling. He heard the whizz of a passing car zoom by and the birds, disturbed by the noise, screaming out in the fading daylight. Everything settled once again.

"That's what I was trying to say," the older man said quietly, "I was trying to say that I think I really like you a lot, I think I love you." He fiddled with his bony digits like a scolded child. "And if you don't wanna talk to me ever again, I'll get out of this car right now."

"I'm…" Paul started after a long pause of silence, his throat dry and croaky, "I'm so confused." He looked over at the older man with wide eyes. "When did you start feeling this way?"

John blinked, the tears in his eyes threatening to spill over. "Uh... I don't know..." he sifted through his memories like sorting through a jumbled deck of cards, "it's hard to remember... maybe during the concert- I mean conference... I just wanted to hug you; you made me feel safe." His pointed nose flared a little in nervousness. He dipped his head as he spoke and avoided Paul's wide eyes like they were blinding spotlights.

The bassist exhaled, turning his face forward so that he was staring straight ahead. For the longest time, neither man uttered a word. A few dribbles of cars passed by, their headlights like fireflies dancing in the distance. When everything settled once again, Paul breathed loudly and ran a hand through his hair and then down his face tiredly.

"I don't know what to say," he announced finally, voice low and crackling.

"I want you to say that you still want to be my friend," said John. He had the timid voice of a young boy, one that Paul found almost maddening.

With his dark hair ruffled from his hands, Paul's sorrowful gaze lingered on the older man's thinning frame. "You mean so much to me," he whispered.

John's eyes both set alight and also rippled with pools of melancholy. He looked so fragile- like a mosaic- tucked away into the corner, pressed against the car window, his lips trembling and his orbs watering.

"You mean a lot to me too, Paul; I don't know where I'd be without you, really... probably in jail." He grinned sadly. "Probably in the nut house..." His gaze turned sorrowful.

Paul bit the inside of his lip. It took him a while to speak. "I... I suppose I have been thinkin' about you too." He looked down at his fidgeting hands nervously, arguing internally with himself. "But I ain't a queer, alright? I'm not gay."

"I didn't say you were," said John timidly.

"I know but I don't want you to think, just because I've... kissed you, or thought about you, that it means I like men; I don't fancy blokes... maybe just..."

John waited with bated breath, eyes as wide as dinner plates. The bassist frowned deeply again. It made the rhythm guitarist shrivel with guilt because this obviously pained him.

Paul sighed. "I'm just really confused, John." He whispered. "I'm sorry."

Paul's eyesight became slightly blurred when hot, stinging tears clouded his vision. He winced when he swallowed the painful lump in his throat and suddenly felt a hand, coarse and worn, touch his warm cheek with a surprising gentleness. He didn't dare move.

The hand cupped Paul's sharp jaw line, caressing the roughness of his unshaven stubble like touching a priceless artefact. The bassist slowly shifted his hazel eyes over to John's direction and stared at him in puzzlement, yet he did not pull away.

In fact, the younger man found himself melting into the touch like heated butter. He used a cautious hand of his own to touch John's knee, silently delighted when the older man didn't flinch or decline his small advance. John shifted in his seat and finally moved his hand to Paul's far shoulder and pulled him gently in, so that their faces were mere inches from each other.

Brown eyes gazed deeply, longingly, lovingly, into hazel orbs of the same calibre. The world around them seemed to stop for a few seconds, before John slowly and carefully pressed his thin lips to Paul's plumper ones.

At first, it felt like Paul wanted to pull away; he hadn't kissed back and his hand on John's knee had turned to stone. John pulled Paul a little tighter into the crevice of his body, his eyes squeezed shut as if he wanted the world- or perhaps Paul- to swallow him up: this was humiliating.

John, finally deciding that this was twenty-thousand different levels of awful, detached his mouth from Paul's and immediately slapped his hands over his eyes, refusing to look at the younger man.

"I'm so sorry, I'm so fucking sorry," he mumbled erratically, his voice low and laboured in flustered embarrassment.

Paul didn't reply. His hazel eyes had trained themselves to the dashboard of the car in a dazed puzzlement.

"Fuck..." John breathed, "why do I always fuck everything up!" He tore his palms away from his face and shuddered out a husky breath, his voice shivering with pent up frustration. He glanced at the silent Paul for a weary moment and threw open the passenger side door, scrambling out of it and slamming it shut.

The rhythm guitarist had never felt so mortified in his entire life. With wobbly legs, he stalked away from the car. He barely felt he could keep it together.

Everything had gone to complete and utter shit; his friends hated him; the person he thought loved him back wanted nothing to do with him; his sanity was only barely hanging on by a thread; his appearance had plummeted, as had his musical ability; his self-esteem was non-existent, and he had no one.

John was alone, mentally and physically, with only that bastard hallucination to berate him every once in a while.

As he walked, he patted down his coat pockets to find himself empty of cigarettes: another thing to add to the shit pile. His life was a joke, and no one was laughing.

Rattling in shaky breaths, the musician's trembling footsteps had unknowingly carried him further along the long country road they had been driving down. He didn't know where he was headed, and sooner or later he would probably forget why he was even here.

"John!"

He ignored it, his brain and eyesight growing a little fuzzy as the sun had completely set, leaving him in cold, black darkness. He could feel himself slowly starting to become disoriented; the mounds of dirt and shrubbery beneath his boots felt like landmines on the mottled grass bank. He was scared. Where was Paul? Where was he himself?

"John, stop!"

John found himself transported back to 1958, the chill of the night air nibbling at his skin, the light damp of the atmosphere crawling in the nape of his neck uncomfortably, the darkness beckoning him.

He stumbled a little on the beaten path as he blindly continued forward. He could hear something calling him, a scared voice drifting into his ears from a distance away. Paranoid he would unknowingly wander into the road, John considerably slowed his pace until he was fumbling along in the dark like an old man.

His breathing was laboured, a panic branding his stomach like hot poker irons. Every now and again, the musician would feel the urge to turn and run; he needed and longed for Paul, but he knew Paul didn't need him.

Scowling ahead of him, he didn't see a large, unearthed tree root snag his shoe and pull him down to the dirt. He landed with a thump on his stomach, brief pain shooting through his chest and bones, before fading away to numbness.

John didn't feel like moving, and when he heard footsteps approaching him, he curled further into a ball. The wind rushed past him, clusters of hisses burning his ears in the biting breeze.

"John?"

He felt a warm presence grace him, almost like an angel glowing in the dark night. His breathing was a little laboured from walking- or perhaps running, John couldn't tell- briskly to catch up to the fleeing rhythm guitarist. With nervously quick fingers, the man touched John's cold face and stared down at him with those sad, doe eyes.

"Paulie?" John whispered.

The man used his arms to pull John up from the ground and into his chest, cradling him for a moment. The man was slightly warmer than John, who was icy cold in comparison. When John put his ear to the man's chest, he could almost hear the thump of his heartbeat, or perhaps he was imagining it.

After clinging to the shape for some time, and feeling the sting of tiredness burn over his eyelids, John tried to nestle himself comfortably into the man's coat. Instead, he found himself being heaved up and pulled into the figure's shoulder. After just about getting his bearings, the rhythm guitarist felt his head spin when, out from the darkness, he felt a shy pair of lips press against his cheek.

The two of them walked back to the car in silence.

... ... ...

When they arrived back at the house, they discovered Mimi and Brian to be gone. Paul found a note on the kitchen counter telling them that John's aunt had checked herself into a hotel not far away. Brian had presumably went back to his little flat to sulk alone like always. Paul decided he wouldn't tell anyone about the missing mirror on his car, or their near-death experience, for both his and John's sake.

John stood in the living room, face a little worn and tired from the late nights and the weary days. His skin was an alabaster, a dull, gaunt grey, his eyes sleepy and small in their sockets. His form was tense, but yet undeniably saggy under his own fatigue.

Paul looked back at him from the kitchen, his hands brushing past different medicines as he felt about the cupboard for John's sleeping tablets.

"You tired?" The bassist asked gently.

John nodded, eyelids so heavy that it almost hurt him to stay awake. "I don't need those tonight," he mumbled.

"Need what?" Paul frowned.

"The pills," the older man said, "to make me sleep: I don't need them, not tonight."

Paul stopped quietly and pulled his hand out of the cupboard, leaning against the kitchen counter. He appeared forlorn. "I wish it didn't have to be this way, you know?"

The older man nodded in silence. "Yeah," he said.

"Do you have nightmares?" Paul asked.

"Sometimes," John admitted after a pregnant pause, "I dream about... bad things. Do you?"

"Yeah, I do," Paul said, "I have nightmares too. What bad things do you dream about?"

A tsunami of horrific images waged in the ocean of John's mind. He heard alarm bells blare and echo painfully around his skull.

John hadn't been sleeping well at all, he supposed that was why he needed the tablets. Even with the medication, he would wake up sweaty and exhausted with shallow-breaths. He often dreamt of headlights. He would flinch whenever the engine of a vehicle roared outside his window. He dreamt of everyone leaving him, he dreamt of Paul leaving him.

John shrugged, his brown eyes glazed over with grotesque visions. "I don't remember," then he looked at Paul. "What do you dream about?"

The younger man shook his head. "Lots of things," he sighed, "hardly any of them good."

The two men drowned in silence.

"I'm... I'm sorry," John said, "about what happened back there... about the kiss."

Comparable to a city flooding with light from the street lamps, like moonlight glittering across the choppy surface of a lake, like the night sky glowing with a thousand stars, Paul's hazel eyes set alight with a dozen different emotions. His fingers trembled, his jaw tightened, as he tried to restrain whatever feelings he had rushing through his body.

Finally, when he reeled himself forwards slightly, ambling over to the rhythm guitarist and edging through the narrow space between John and the kitchen counter, his face was dangerously close to the older man's. John watched those doe orbs quickly flicker over his lips and down his neck and to his chest. Then, their eyes met.

Paul gave a small smirk, one that exhumed nervousness but also a little confidence. "Don't be," he said.

John watched him walk away.

... ... ...

Paul found himself staring up at the ceiling for a long time. The hours faded into each other, and, before he knew it, it was two o'clock in the morning. Even when his doe eyes burned with weariness, the bassist couldn't stop his mind racing; thoughts of John's lips danced through his mind, a stampede of scents and tastes and memories, like a thousand running wild horses, left him almost dizzy as he lay on his bedsheets.

He let his hand rest on his milky chest lazily, fiddling and toying with the small amount of chest hair that had started to sprout. His other hand stroked his thigh in a comforting motion. He was naked, pink and thoughtful, on his quilt. His tired eyes glittered like exploding stars.

Amidst his day dreaming, Paul felt himself grow remorseful at the memory of him not kissing back. He remembered John's desperate, tentative lips on his, the taste of cigarettes dancing across his tongue, but the bassist was too shocked for his brain to tell his mouth to move. John had shamefully pulled away before Paul had been able to engage in the kiss properly.

The dark-haired musician felt scorn towards himself run all over his body like free-flowing water. He longed for John to kiss him again; he hadn't felt that much passion from another human in such a long time that it seemed like the rhythm guitarist was the only one who cared.

He remembered a time when they were touring, and Paul had picked up a bird and brought her back to his hotel room for the usual course of fucking and forgetting. She had red hair, and that was about as far as Paul's memory stretched when it came to her appearance.

He remembered, during their heated, sticky session of frantic intercourse, John had burst into the room, eyes wide in furious anger and mouth stretched back to reveal angry razor-sharp fangs. He had ranted and raved, Paul and the girl trying to hurriedly conceal their modesty, and John had started cutting up the poor girl's dress with a pair of scissors. The bird had to leave in one of Ringo's shirts.

Had John always been that protective from the start?

Paul's hand had found its way closer to the inner folds of his slim thigh. His hand nestled over his pale skin, gently caressing the milky, white countenance of the soft flesh of his manhood. His eyes were glued to the ceiling, his mind drifting away, as he began to guide his palm up and down his shaft slowly. His breathing relaxed.

He thought of the red-head once again, and the many other women in between, he had ravished. He heard their breathing, their soft, harmonious moans and hitches of breath dancing in his ear. He remembered the way the light bounced across their naked bodies, like beacons calling out to the inner beast inside Paul wanting to claim them.

His eyes fluttered closed for a moment, when ripples of tingles tickled across his manhood, and in that moment of darkness he saw a pair of chocolate eyes, hungry with desire, stare back at him.

He felt vibrations and pulsing heat prickle his groin as he massaged with a quickly growing passionate hand. His breathing, once relaxed, started to pick up, as did his lust.

Paul saw flashes of breasts and curves cloud his vision, the wild animal inside growling for release. He hummed a little when he felt his bubbling erection tingle in the cool air of the bedroom. He gripped his palm around his semi and started to stroke with a new-found energy that demanded his attention. He needed this.

As quick as the lustful visions of the female physique blitzed through his mind, he found himself curling his toes at the thought of John's lips again. He couldn't help but clutch the bedsheets with his free hand and writhe gently against the mattress when he remembered John's scent, his deep rumbling voice, his chest, and those abyss-like brown orbs that seemed to go on forever. Paul felt that he could happily drown in John's eyes, and melt into his lips.

The thought of this made Paul's hand work a little faster, until he felt the heat radiating from his fully erect member deflect into his palm, like magma in a volcano. He felt a sliver of pre-cum dribble from the tip of his manhood slowly. He jittered a little as the pleasure bubbling in his belly warmed his body and sent little tingles and fingers of blissful lightning shooting through his skin. His eyes rolled back a little, comparable to hazel marbles racing round a paper cup.

His hungry mind raced back to the moment John had latched himself to Paul in the janitor closet at the fashion event not long ago, when- like a dog in heat- John had pressed himself so tight against the bassist that it felt like the rhythm guitarist would crush him. He remembered feeling John's manhood, caged inside his trousers, touch Paul's thigh and how wild it had sent him.

Paul's member was pulsing beneath his palm; the bassist felt himself start to buck a little into his hand, his breathing growing slightly laboured and his throat melting with small gasps of pleasure and frantic, but hushed, grunts of erotica. Paul felt himself growing closer with every pump of his hand.

When he closed his eyes, he saw John's body against his own, he heard his deep voice, imagined his soft moans and his naked figure. Paul's brow tightened as he continued to touch himself masterfully; he had never thought about these things before; he had never thought of John- his best friend- in that way. It confused him, scared him, but he couldn't stop himself from enjoying the image.

He breathed in and out quickly, the pressure building up in his stomach, ready to burst. He couldn't help but moan when a wildfire of tingles spread over his body and made every touch, every movement, electric with passion. He grew faster and faster, the warmth of his lust absorbing every inch of his body, until he felt he would drown in his own ecstasy.

Trying to supress any growl of pleasure escaping his lips, the bassist closed his eyes once again and saw John with him in the moment; he imagined the touch of his hand against his manhood was John's palm, the moans and grunts of passion were John's, and that John's lips ravished his body wildly, his dark eyes alight with desire. He couldn't help but whisper the man's name.

"John," he breathed, pale body trembling, with the lust taking complete control. "Oh, fuck, John!"

It all became too much, and Paul's hazel orbs shot open when an overwhelming climax shook his bones, sending vibrations coursing round his body like bolts of lightning. He grunted, and the sticky, cloudy seed spilled into his hand, onto his stomach, warm and long-awaited. Paul felt relief and relaxation wash over him almost instantly, as if all the troubles in his mind had melted away. His eyelids sagged, as did his shaking body. He panted, and used some tissue to clean himself up a bit, before lying back down in the bed.

Finally, he stopped his heavy breathing. His eyes were trained on the ceiling once again, the heavy burn over his eyelids making his orbs water in pain. He was so fucking tired: tired of everything.

Had he pushed John away? Had he pushed everyone away?

Did he like John? Did he love him?

He couldn't deny that the thought of John against him made him ache in longing.

Paul rolled over onto his side, smothering his face with the cool press of the bedsheet against his cheek. He screwed his eyes shut and groaned into the fabric.

Drifting off the sleep, the bassist felt a heavy weight of despair plague his heart.

… … …

**(Hello everyone…**

**Firstly, chapters from now on might have sexual content in them. I'm sorry if this bothers you but it is a McLennon story…**

**Secondly, I'm so, so sorry for not updating in such a long while; school has been hectic and I haven't really been feeling the best in myself lately. Hopefully this chapter satisfied you? I hope so… I'd hate to disappoint any of you…**

**If this chapter just seems like more filler, I really apologise. There will be more plot development coming soon but I just don't like keeping you guys' waiting so long.**

**I'd love to know what you thought of this chapter. A comment would be much appreciated! Thank you all so much for reading.**

**See you soon!)**


	21. Safe

**WARNING: this chapter contains themes of a sexual nature. Read at your own peril.**

... ... ...

When the sun finally filtered through the hastily drawn curtains, drowning everything in its bright, basking glow, Paul's hazy eyes blinked open. He quickly shut them when the light stung his sensitive orbs like hot embers. He curled further into his duvet instinctively when the cold nibbled at his naked toes, and he let out a muffled groan. Outside his door, travelling across the floorboards, were footsteps: to whom they belonged, he did not know.

After burrowing himself in his brilliantly white bedsheets, the bassist quickly recalled the previous events of his near accident and his lustful late-night escapades. He squirmed, disgusted and thoroughly confused with himself, further into his own self-pity and misery until he felt the uncomfortable sensation of not being able to breathe properly strain his lungs. He poked his head out of the cover once again, lacklustre in optimism to move from the bed, or to eat, or drink- unless it was something alcoholic- or to do anything apart from wallow.

He thought long and hard, until his brain felt like it would melt out of his ears: 'What was the point?'

The bassist blinked blankly, hazel eyes lost in the ivory wallpaper, like an empty canvas, across from him.

The last time he felt this bad was after his mother died. Other than obsessively tinker with his guitar, as a teenager Paul used to lie in bed and try to think up all the answers to a thousand different questions: some of them he still didn't have the answer to.

The bassist closed his eyes again, tiredly, just when he heard a knock on the door. He made sure to cover his naked body before mumbling the person in.

The door opened, and in walked Ringo. He was dressed in a t-shirt and jeans, hair washed and combed, face clean and shaven, though his eyes still carried the weight of a thousand sorrows.

He tried to smile weakly. "John's makin' breakfast if you want some,"

Paul's brow wrinkled in gentle puzzlement, though his stomach gurgled painfully at the thought of food. "John?"

"Yeah," said the drummer, "I'm surprised too. He said he wanted to be useful; I'm sure it can't go too badly." The man let out a nervous, breezy chuckle, his mannerisms resembling a fretting animal about to tread on thin ice.

The bassist blinked before propping himself up using his elbows. "Okay... I'll be down in five minutes." He said. Ringo nodded quietly and shut the door on his way out.

After his mind blinded him with glimpses of the night's previous events like clips from a film reel, the doe-eyed man gathered himself up out of bed, put on his underwear, and pulled on a pair of fitted, brown trousers. After sliding on a belt, Paul padded over to his wardrobe and ran his hands over the different shirts he owned. His fingers stopped when they graced the slightly wrinkled, white shirt he wore last night, his digits curling around the material. Closing his eyes, he brought his face close to the cloth, burying his girlish nose into the fabric and inhaling deeply: cigarettes, cologne, John; the scent was so inviting and familiar that Paul felt like melting into the shirt and embracing it. He pulled his face away and sighed tiredly, finally plucking a tight, ivory tee from the wardrobe and grabbing a navy jumper over the top to shield himself from the nippy air.

Paul finally kicked on his shoes and made his way to the bathroom, eyes low and groggy from the lack of sleep. At first glance in the mirror, the bassist wanted to grimace; his dark hair was kinked and stuck in three different positions, while his hazel orbs were small and madly bloodshot. Comparable to melting candle wax, the bassist had a droopy expression: a man old before his time.

Sighing dejectedly, Paul brushed his teeth and splashed his face with cold water. He raked a damp comb through his dark hair and then dried it lightly with a towel. He tried to get the feeling of John off his skin, scrubbing at his hands as he washed them. Dirty. His hands were dirty. His mind was dirty. He felt filthy, but he wanted John to touch him again.

John was his friend. He had wanked over the image his best friend. He was disgusting; Paul had never felt so disturbed in his life.

But were they really friends? Friends didn't snog each other, did they? He hadn't kissed George, he hadn't kissed Ringo either, and they were Paul's best friends. Maybe John was more than a regular friend. Maybe he wasn't a friend at all, but something else.

Paul shook his head. Things were all so mixed up, he didn't know what to believe. He took one last bitter glance in the mirror and made his way downstairs, his ears catching snippets of heated conversation, his nose crinkling with the scent of something burnt.

He hoped it would be reminiscent of the days before all of this: a fry up on the go, the radio on, the newspaper forgotten on the side, as the four of them sat around the table and laughed and wolfed down their food, ready for the day ahead.

He hoped, when he walked into the kitchen, that George wasn't scolding John for burning the eggs, and Ringo wasn't trying to waft away the smoke hopelessly from the pan.

"-Fuck... John, you're gonna end up gettin' us all killed,"

"I forgot-"

"You forgot? Of course: you always forget. What did I expect?"

"George, give it a rest will you?"

"Oh, come on Ringo, you know; you leave 'im alone for one minute and he nearly starts a fire, Jesus fuckin' Christ."

"Well 'e didn't so will you just wind your neck in about it now?"

"I'll bloody wind your neck in if you keep talkin' to me like that, Rings."

"Watch your mouth, softlad."

From his position in the living room, pensive and wishing for the ground to swallow him up, Paul could see the growing tension smoke up in the kitchen like the burnt food John had prepared. Ringo, usually slow to anger, looked far too tired to be dealing with anything else right then, a weight comparable to the world on his shoulders. His wits were at their end, his soft, azure eyes hard and grating.

George- now a tall, wallowing drink of a man- had smouldering orbs like burning cigarettes. Paul was at least thankful that the youngest had passion in those eyes, even if it was only a shred. Because of his sunken face, his teeth and eyes appeared too big for his head, his dark mop of hair making him shudder under its weight. He stared at Ringo from across the kitchen with ire. Paul felt almost afraid to go near him.

John was now sat miserably at the kitchen table with a burning cigarette in his fingers. His russet eyes were vacant and hollow, nothing inside. The ash from the tobacco cylinder built and built until it fluttered down and landed on the back of John's hand, but the man failed to notice.

"Lads," Paul said tentatively, standing awkwardly in the living room, "what's the fuss?"

Two pairs of eyes, one pair shockingly blue and the other a fiery brown, looked into Paul. The bassist felt his chest become slightly tight all of a sudden. Their orbs were a mixture of many emotions: anger, hopelessness, confusion. Paul wondered if they'd heard him last night. He hoped John hadn't told them about their kiss.

George muttered, "Ringo's bein' a knob."

The eldest rolled his eyes sourly. "George is bein' fussy 'cause John accidentally burnt his eggs."

Paul's eyes flickered over to John, silent and still, and back to his two other bandmates. "It's no biggie, Harrison," he said, "Look, how about I make you some more-"

"No," the youngest interrupted rather solemnly, "it doesn't matter; I've lost my appetite." He glanced from face to face and edged around the table, mincing his way past Paul without looking at him, and trudged upstairs.

The drummer's orbs darkened as he went back to trying to scrape the burnt food from the pan.

"What's his problem?" Paul pondered, small mouth agape in puzzlement. He took a chair next to John and eyed him carefully.

Ringo shook his head, the furrowed brow of a man with little patience left. "No idea; I guess he's just in a bad mood."

The talking between the bassist and the drummer fizzled out dryly as time ticked on. John had burnt through two more cigarettes, and by this point looked a little grey from all the smoke. His hand, however, had stopped trembling. Paul longed to hold it, judging it lonesome resting on the tablecloth idly, ash dusting over the porcelain skin and blue veins like snowfall. John's vacant, chocolate eyes said everything, and yet nothing at all.

"Sleep well, John?" Asked Paul half-heartedly. He tried to catch the older man's eye with one of his dazzling smiles but it proved fruitless.

John brought the last murmurs of the smoke to his lips. He smudged it out in the ash tray like he was squashing a bug, dark orbs transfixed when the cherry dissipated into the glass. Slowly, he brought his heavy gaze up to Paul's face and, with hollow bones, his jaw as sharp as a knife, he let the words roll off his lips, but quiet enough so Ringo couldn't hear. "I dreamt of you last night." He whispered, tone suddenly gaining a slight smoothness that Paul couldn't help but find alluring.

The younger man's eyebrows raised in hopeful suspicion. He cast a careful eye over to the drummer, who was focused on his task, before drifting his gaze back to the rhythm guitarist. He wanted to gush over John, knowing that the older man's subconscious had cared enough to let him into John's mind, but remained poignant. "Tell me later," he said. It took almost all of his self-control to keep it together, as he stood up from the table with shaky legs. Off, like a slinky panther, he went towards the door.

Ringo's confused voice called fruitlessly. "Aren't you 'avin brekkie?" He asked, looking up from the frying pan.

Paul turned at the door and smiled slightly, his eyes taking in John's lanky form at the table, and shook his head. "No, I ain't hungry." Then, he disappeared.

The drummer sighed, returning to scrubbing the pan tiredly, "Isn't anyone bloody hungry in this house?"

... ... ...

"Okay, John, what I want you to do is tell me what the following images are and say them aloud, so we can all hear it. Do you think you can do that for me?"

The rhythm guitarist suddenly found himself sitting in an office. When he looked down, he noticed that one of his shoe laces were untied, and he was wearing brown cord trousers. He had a jumper on. It was black. He didn't remember getting dressed.

"John?"

He looked up. Faces. He recognised Paul first, then Brian, then Mimi. There was another man... what was his name? Doctor... Doctor Rigby? No- he remembered Doctor Rigby was a lady. This man was Doctor... Doctor-

"Maybe we should do this exercise another day; John seems to be unable to respond-"

"No, no," Paul said, "He can do it, can't you, Johnny?"

If he could just get his bloody bearings together, he would be fine! Brian was touching his shoulder now. John felt the cold from the manager's hand travel through his body and send waves of goosebumps across his skin. He shuddered a little.

"You alright, my lad?" Brian asked. His blue eyes rippled like pools of despair.

John finally felt his throat crackle to life. "Fine..." he responded, "What do I need to do?"

The doctor lifted up some cards. He held it in front of John and said, "Tell me what these are."

The man raised an eyebrow. "That's it?"

Smiling, the doctor nodded. "That's it. Ready for the first one?"

John hummed in agreement. The first card was shown. He knew it. "Rat."

"Yes, well done."

This was easy! He could do this without a problem, it was a cake walk. The next card was shown. "Chair."

"Correct."

"Plane."

"Well done."

"Motor- No... bicycle"

"Correct, keep it up."

"C-Cat?"

"Yes."

"House."

"Correct, here's the last one."

John blinked. "I... I don't know..."

"Just try to guess, it's okay."

"C...Car?"

"Well done, John. That wasn't so bad was it?"

The musician didn't reply, instead he looked down at his shoes again with flushed cheeks, rosy with humiliation. The doctor put the cards back in his desk draw and looked back at John again.

"How have you been coping without the Phenelzine, John? Better? Worse?"

Paul spoke for him. "He hasn't had an outburst in a while... but I guess you could say he's been more down than usual."

The doctor hummed quietly, his grey eyes hardening a little with clinical intrigue. "How are the delusions? The hallucinations?"

It was quiet, almost deafening, until Brian's chalky voice filtered through the air. "Doctor Rigby says they're getting worse..."

"I see," said the professional quietly, tentatively, as he tucked his palm under his chin for a moment as his mind raced. The room went quiet and cold, like Winter had descended upon them all of a sudden, and then the doctor spoke again. "Well the way I see it, there are two ways we can go about doing this."

Paul's doe eyes brightened in intrigue. "What are they?"

"There's a new drug, French, imported from America called Chlorpromazine- or Thorazine, as it's more commonly known." The doctor rested his hands on the table again, eyes trained on John's tense form in the chair. "From research, it's proven effective for the treatment of psychosis."

Mimi grimaced. "Is it safe?"

"Yes, of course. Although there is an alternative option if you aren't comfortable with the first."

"Go on," Brian pushed nervously.

The doctor looked pensive. "The other option is to have John stay at a care centre for specialist treatment." His clinical eyes scanned everyone in the room before resting on John, who still gazed at the floor blankly.

The room was silent, before Paul uttered, "Absolutely not," with quiet anguish.

John's brown orbs flickered to Paul briefly before melting back to his shoes.

"Without proper treatment," the doctor continued carefully, "John's condition could worsen. More serious complications from his brain injury could go unnoticed-"

"But it's only a closed fracture, isn't it?" Interrupted Paul.

The practitioner closed his eyes briefly and sighed. Much like the rest of the people in the room, he also looked weighed down with fatigue. "Yes, that is true, however there may be swelling or a tumour that could develop: we have no way of knowing such things."

The bassist looked crestfallen. "Well... well is there anythin' we can do to stop it?"

"A healthy diet, exercise, educational training to stimulate the brain... maybe cut down on the cigarettes too. And be sure John takes the new medication." Advised the doctor.

"Excuse me, Doctor Robert," Brian started gently, "I believe the last time you prescribed John medication, it induced... mania. Will that happen with this new one?"

"John appeared to have suffered an adverse reaction to the Phenelzine, which I will admit is not very common but it does happen from time to time." Said Doctor Robert, strolling over to his medicine cabinet in the corner of the room. "However, Thorazine soothes the patient, creating more of a sedate result, if you will: mania is not a common side effect."

Paul grumbled quietly. "That's what you said last time."

The practitioner slid open the cabinet and from it he plucked a brown bottle, made of russet glass that shimmered when the sunlight caressed it with its warm rays. The doctor sat back down at his desk and passed it over to Brian generously.

"The medication shouldn't interfere with the sleeping pills I prescribed. In fact, the Thorazine may make John feel rather drowsy, so the sleeping tablets are not always needed."

The manager's lips tightened considerably. He nodded, unable to trust his shaking voice, and clutched the bottle with a tense hand.

Doctor Robert smiled thinly. "I believe one pill a day should be enough. When the prescription runs out, or if there are any problems, call me."

Everyone, apart from the rhythm guitarist, muttered a hasty response as they gathered themselves together and left. John was ushered out by Paul, who had a firm hand touching his shoulder. He looked up at the bassist as they travelled down the corridor back to the car.

"I think this is the end, ain't it?" John mumbled.

Paul blinked, slightly horrified by John's sudden morbidity. "End of what?" He asked with a hushed tone.

The older man stared deep into Paul's watery, hazel eyes, mad and bleak, like a man drawing his last breath. "The end of us- the end of me."

Paul's grip tightened around John's shoulder so much that he felt the rhythm guitarist squirm. "Don't ever say that." He breathed with severity. "Don't you ever fuckin' say that."

The two men fell silent as they trudged back to the car.

... ... ...

One last day of freedom.

One last day of sweet, sober lucidity, before he had to take his meds.

Brian had decided John would start the Thorazine the next day, meaning the rhythm guitarist only had hours before his psychological demise.

He wasn't supposed to be on medication: he was a rock star. The only pills he should have been taking were ones that kept him up all night, not ones that left him dribbling down his chin.

So as a celebration before his soon-ending freedom, John thought it was only right to get absolutely fucking hammered.

He was on his bedroom floor, bottle of Bicardi in one hand, joint in the other. His jumper had been shed, his belt discarded halfway across the room, one of his shoes somehow ending up on top of the wardrobe. He had discovered Ringo's stash of kush when he had drunkenly stumbled into his room and ended up looting the sock draw, looking for the 'special magazines' he heard the drummer whispering to George about in the kitchen. Needless to say, as well as itching for a drink, John was also itching for some action.

Like a foal learning to walk on shaky legs, the rhythm guitarist dragged himself up from the carpet and held himself upright using his bed post. Breathing heavily, he swayed over to the door and pulled it open.

"I need a piss," he mumbled.

The corridor wobbled around him, the marijuana and the vodka blurring the thin line between reality and the imaginary, as the man stumbled over his own feet and nearly crash-landed head first into the wall, but saved himself just in time by using his hands to hold his weary body up.

It proved difficult, but John had successfully made his way to the loo: now he just had to piss...

After nearly decorating the walls, the rhythm guitarist wobbled out of the bathroom and was about to stumble back to his boudoir before he heard quiet talking coming from Paul's bedroom. In his hazy state, the rhythm guitarist rattled open the door and collapsed through, sprawling out on the bassist's carpet.

The younger man had wide eyes. "Uh, Mike... I have to go." He breathed, before putting the phone back on the cradle and rushing over to his bandmate, who was giggling to himself quietly on the floor.

"If I fell in love with you, would you.. you promise to be true," John sang giddily, as Paul hoisted him from the ground and helped shuffle him over to the bed.

"What's got into you," Paul mumbled. He tried to get the man to lay down but the rhythm guitarist was trying to grasp onto the bassist sloppily. "John, let go, you need to sleep it off."

"I'm jus'... doin' me!" Lennon hiccuped. He grabbed Paul's hand and started drunkenly nuzzling it across his sunken cheeks. "You're... you're so soft, Paul."

Paul tried pulling away weakly, confused as to whether he wanted this to happen or not. He knelt down in front of John, looking up at him. "Drinking doesn't solve shit." He tried to drill through John's hazy orbs with his own sober ones as he put a warm hand on John's knee. "It's pointless. It don't help nothin', you hear me?"

John narrowed his expression in anguish. "Then why do you do it!" He growled. He wobbled slightly on the bed but remained reasonably lucid when he focused on Paul's grounding touch.

"Because I'm a dumb fucking bastard, John, and it hurts me. You're smarter than I am! You don't need to do this to feel whole again." He assured.

John's narrow eyes quickly melted into ones of sultry intent. He used his hands to clutch Paul's shirt collar. "I know what'll make us feel whole again, Paulie." He grinned wickedly, as he started running his palms up and down Paul's chest.

The bassist grimaced, trying to stand up but feeling John's gropes become fuelled with desire and desperation. "No, John," he scolded lightly, "you're drunk."

"So what if I am?" The rhythm guitarist slurred, "I want to know how it feels to be needed again." His eyes shifted up and down Paul's slender figure seductively and he pulled the younger man closer.

Paul didn't respond. His breathing had suddenly become heavy and ragged, his eyes watery. He felt goosebumps spread across his skin in rapid-fire quickness. He found his hand on John's knee moving up his thigh and dangerously close to the older man's package.

"Besides," John purred, "I heard you moaning my name last night."

Paul froze immediately, wide eyes staring through the other man. Neither of them spoke for a moment, until McCartney whispered. "I don't know what I want."

John appeared to have sobered for a brief moment, brown eyes gaining a clarity. "I think... I think I want you." He responded just as hushed.

The bassist breathed. "I... I think I want you too."

Both men chortled nervously, John's alcoholic smell wafting through the air. Paul stopped laughing for a moment and stared into John's eyes like he was staring at the night sky; the rhythm guitarist had lost some of the lucidity in those dark, rippling pools- due to the alcohol as well as the injury- but they still held a craving desire that burned with the heat of a thousand Sun's.

"I hope I didn't scare you," the bassist murmured, "when you heard me... you know..." he smiled sheepishly.

John gave a drunken grin. "I liked it." He brought his face closer to Paul's until their noses were mere inches apart. "It made me... me d-dream about you," he slurred a little. Paul's grip on his thigh tightened to try and keep him awake.

Paul smiled with small, plump lips. "What was I doin' in the dream?"

The rhythm guitarist giggled bashfully, averting his eyes for a moment. "We were in a... a..." he furrowed his brow. "What's the word?"

"Car? Boat? Plane-"

"Plane! Tha's it! Me an' you were in a plane, and the sky was green, and the clouds... the clouds, Paul! They were p-purple, of all things, an' we were in this plane an' we were kissin' each other an' holdin' each other an'-"

"John," the bassist chuckled, "slow down, will ye'?"

"-then the dream ended an' I was all sticky when I woke up, y'know." John had his hands on Paul's shoulders in a tight grasp. "You do things to me, you know that, Paulie."

Paul felt the heat rise to his cheeks. He breathed heavily. "Do I?"

The older man lowered his voice. Perhaps it was the alcohol talking, Paul thought, that was making John so sincere. His brown eyes seemed to hold the whole world in them. "Y'know," he hiccuped dreamily, "through all this crazy, fucked up bullshite, I still 'member that night in '58 on that bench." Paul eyes stared up at the man like a child in wonder. John ran his hand through the bassist's raven locks and touseled them pleasantly. "Clear as day."

Paul could feel the heat from both of their bodies elope them in a warm cocoon of oblivion to the outside world. He squeezed John's thigh again and relished when John ran his hands through his hair again, the touch electric, sending sparks all over his body. John, the herbal smell of blow hanging onto his clothes like a spirit, hummed at each touch of the bassist's dark follicles.

The doe-eyed lad could have stayed in that moment forever, careless and safe: he was in the longing arms of his favourite person. When he felt those magnetic fingers cease massaging his skull, he looked up quietly to see John staring down at him.

"Paul..." he breathed, his voice laden with husk, "can I... can I kiss you?"

The bassist felt his heart stop for a moment, the butterflies in his stomach multiplying at an alarming rate. His breathing hitched, his mouth hanging open a little. "I... okay," he whispered.

He closed his eyes when he felt John's presence gravitate towards him, the warmth grow stronger, the scent invading his nostrils and tickling his senses. Their lips connected tentatively. John had Paul's shoulders in his grasping hands, their bodies touching, moving against each other like stones skimming a stream. Paul moved his hands to the small of the older man's back and ran his fingers, trying to find a surface to cling on, caressing the countenance of John's bear physique as if touching a work of art. It was not long before the two men had ended up on the bed, John pushing Paul down on the sheets hastily, his lips still working Paul's feverishly. The rhythm guitarist moaned and breathed against the bassist's mouth and neck, planting a bevy of delicate kisses on his pale skin. John's coarse hands had started shakily trying to tug Paul's jumper off of him, until finally Paul removed his jumper and his t-shirt himself and cast them across the room quickly. They melted into each other once again.

Paul's hazel eyes popped open when he felt a bulge touch his thigh. Through the mop of John's auburn hair that tickled the bassist's forehead, the doe-eyed musician saw one of John's hands cup his package through his trousers, trying to undo his fly. Paul pushed John gently away for a second.

The bassist tried to catch his breath. "Are we...?"

John looked to be in the same position as Paul, his brow slightly furrowing. "I... I don't know. I'm sorry; I pushed you too much-"

"No, it's not that," Paul said reassuringly, "it's just that I've never been with a bloke before, y'know."

"Well... are you, y'know, in the mood?"

Paul blinked. Was something else going to happen here? The bassist felt the butterflies in his stomach whirl until he felt a little ill. "Um, I-I suppose. I mean, what do you wanna do?"

The rhythm guitarist looked bashful. "I just wanna make you feel g-good, Paul." He curled his fingers around Paul's gently.

The two men sat on the bed quietly for a moment. Paul speculated. "I don't want to make you do anythin' you don't want to. You're drunk after all, John; I don't wanna take advantage of ye'." His hazel eyes shifted to the carpet.

Suddenly, John was on the floor in front of him. "No, Paul, I want this to 'appen, I've wanted it for months... maybe even years. Even touchin' you makes me happy." He rubbed Paul's knees with his big hands. "I want to make you feel good. I wanna know if y-you're okay with this though."

The bassist felt his heart race. He wanted to know John- know everything about him. He wanted to know John's body: Paul felt compelled.

But he didn't want this to change them. He felt terror strike him in the heart when he thought about the consequences of exploring his sexuality, his boundaries with his best friend. Being gay was illegal: he'd seen Brian come into the studio with a new bruise or a bust lip or a black eye far too many times to realise that being a homosexual was more than frowned upon.

But Paul was certainly not gay; he liked women, he liked their bodies, but he also liked John. John made him feel that nothing else in the world mattered. John made him feel safe. He knew things had definitely changed when John was in the accident, and that it was his duty to care for his soul mate. He sometimes found himself longingly wishing John hadn't been left brain damaged but there was nothing none of them could do about that.

"Paul?" John shook him gently, eyes dark with a small desperation inside them.

Paul swallowed. Change could be good. He breathed. "I'm okay. I want you to."

The older man gave a frayed smile. His eyes quickly shifted over to Paul's crotch before him. "M-May I?" He asked.

The younger man nodded, and he felt the zip of his trousers loosen, his belt discarded somewhere behind them. Paul let his eyes close for a brief moment as John slid the man's underwear down his thighs and dropped them to his ankles. There was a pause, and in that moment Paul felt the weight of the world press against his chest in fear.

John's voice was low, shaky. "You're... beautiful."

A kiss. One kiss sent shivers racing up and down Paul's spine as he exhaled deeply and let John's delicate mouth massage his semi. Slowly, carefully, John used his tongue to swirl around the head of Paul's member, as he used his coarse hands to grasp the bassist's slim, hairy thighs. Paul gasped a little when John sucked for a second and the man took his mouth away quickly.

His chocolate eyes were alight in concern. "Did I hurt you?"

"No," Paul breathed heavily, "no, that felt good."

John grinned devilishly and wrapped his lips around Paul's bubbling manhood once again, now fully erect. The bassist moaned as John took his length into his mouth hungrily. The combination of his tongue and his powerful sucks made Paul roll his eyes back in pleasure, his hands finding their way into John's shaggy, auburn hair and coil.

"Oh, God, John," the bassist groaned quietly.

The rhythm guitarist obediently and feverishly circled his silver tongue around the head of Paul's throbbing cock, moaning every so often as if he was dining on his last meal. His eyes burnt through Paul's, filling the bassist head to toe with erotica. John felt his own manhood swell painfully with neglect but he worked Paul's dick with gusto.

"Fuck, oh fuck," Paul writhed, pulling John's hair tighter. He felt his member pulse powerfully, the pleasure burning through him like wildfire. His orgasm was closer than he wanted it to be, but he needed release. He looked down at John with foggy, lustful eyes, cheeks plump and rosy with electricity.

John sensed Paul was close and so sped up, his mouth working faster than it ever had, his tongue in a frenzy; that taste of the bassist made him ache with longing. Feverishly, the rhythm guitarist gave one long last suck and removed his mouth in time for Paul's seed to spill out from him, as the younger man throttled a little in overwhelming pleasure, his hazel eyes disappearing under his eyelids.

"John..." he breathed, finally regaining his composure, "that was amazing."

The older man smiled at his Paul with cloudy orbs. "Did it make you feel good?"

"Oh, God," Paul grinned, "it made me feel fuckin' great." He moved his trembling hand over to John's thigh when the rhythm guitarist climbed onto the bed. "I don't know how I'm gonna top that."

John's voice quietened, his lips pressing once again to Paul's neck. "You could do anythin' to me and I'd love it." He felt Paul's hands press against his bare chest and push him back against the pillows, his hazel orbs suddenly glowing with seductive intent.

"I've been waiting to do this," he purred, tugging down the zipper on John's trousers.

... ... ...

**(Hello guys and gals and everyone in between!**

**I apologise sincerely for the long wait, school has been hectic and I've been in a bit of a funk lately which makes me unmotivated to write but I pushed through!**

**I hope you all enjoyed this chapter. There will be more as soon as I finish writing, don't fret.**

**To the anonymous Guest reviewer... I'm sorry I kept you without an update and I appreciate your enthusiasm for my story. Sometimes it takes me a while to write these chapters to a decent quality, especially when I make them extra long. I'm writing as fast as I can, please be patient. Thank you for your reviews, nevertheless. :-)**

**Also thank you to my good friend nij2401 who supports me a lot through this story! They're a great writer, so please give them some love.**

**Anyway, that's enough of me. I'll see you soon!**

**Lots of love,**

**omgringo)**


	22. The Emptiness

WARNING: This chapter contains sexual material from the start. If you are not comfortable with this, do NOT read. You have been warned.

... ... ...

Every inch of his skin glowed under Paul's fingertips as the bassist's digits circled and ran along the milky, pale flesh of John's tightened body, the bassist's coarse fingers were gentle, as if tickling the ivory keys on a piano. The pads of his fingers spread goosebumps over the older man's skin, akin to stars appearing on a blue night, and ripples of shudders were sent running up and down John's spine until he felt gentle waves of pleasure wade through his nervous, alcohol-soaked mind, like a breeze rustling through the leaves on an old oak tree.

When Paul's mouth began to plant kisses on the his chest, John let a long sigh roll through him. He gazed at Paul's flushed face as the bassist used his tongue to circle John's small, pink nipples and lather them in saliva until they were erect and swollen. Paul's gentle scent of fabric softener and cigarettes made John ache with longing, when the younger man hovered over his face and peered down at him with sensuality. John leaned his neck forward and engaged in a warm kiss with the man, before Paul disappeared again from his view. The rhythm guitarist felt Paul's hot breath tickle the inner sides of his thighs. He stared up at the ceiling tentatively.

When he felt Paul's lips and tongue wrap themselves around his manhood, he closed his foggy, brown eyes. Pleasure cast over him like shadow, as his hazy mind floated away. His hands gripped the bedsheets every time Paul's mouth bobbed upon his member; he tried desperately to fight the fuzziness of the eclipse that was threatening to swallow him whole, all the while trying not to moan too loudly from Paul's soft lips on his prick.

"N-No," he whispered, so quiet that even he struggled to hear his own words.

Paul's hand was clutched around John's hip as he worked at the older man's cock, eager to please him. He didn't realise that John was halfway between consciousness and the void of rippling darkness that shimmered over his eyelids every time he blinked.

The warmth from his erection bubbled and melted over his body, making it even more difficult to stay awake. John's grip on the bedsheets became tight again when Paul's tongue swirled around the head of his dick. The warmth travelled up his toes and up his legs, his thighs, through his stomach, and up into his throat, until he finally jolted himself awake with a yelp. In the process, he knocked Paul back.

"Are you alright?" The bassist asked quietly. He suddenly felt very ashamed and unclean once again.

John breathed deeply a few times before lifting his gaze up from his neglected and simmering erection to Paul's saddened, hazel eyes that peered at him from the end of the bed. "I... I just feel a bit drowsy." He slurred.

Paul shrunk in on himself. "I knew I shouldn't have... I made a mistake." He mumbled. He hurriedly and modestly tried to cover himself with the sheet on the bed. "I'm sorry."

John felt almost as if he was watching himself from afar, as if he wasn't in his own body, like a ghost watching a corpse reanimated. His mouth wasn't all the way connected to his brain. "It's not yer fault, P-Paul..." he said. "I think I jus' need a breather fer a mo'."

Paul looked down with watery eyes, face flushed red in embarrassment. The room went deadly quiet.

Neither man knew that to say in order to disintegrate the silence in which they dwelled. John's eyes grew so heavy that he found himself slipping away, until the mattress gave a little. The rhythm guitarist opened his eyes and realised he must have been drifting off.

"Paul... where are you-"

Paul had grabbed his clothes from the floor and had quickly pulled on his trousers. "I think I might just sleep in your bed tonight, John." He announced.

John blinked slowly. "W-Why?"

"Well I've fucked it all up, haven't I?"

"Fucked what up?"

"Us." The bassist said. His eyes were low, refusing to meet John's weary gaze. "I've made it all awkward, y'know, like I always do."

John breathed deeply before getting on his hands and knees and crawling to the end of the bed tiredly. He reached out his palms, like they were made of lead, and mumbled, "Come 'ed and sleep with me, lad."

The bassist seemed to hesitate, a mixture of conflicting expressions moving across his girlish features, before he made his way over to the bed once more, and, sliding off his trousers, carefully climbed onto the mattress next to John. The two men sat opposite each other for a minute, taking in the sight of their naked bodies so close.

"Do you think this'll change us?" Paul asked quietly.

John smiled with a small mouth. "No,"

The bassist looked vulnerable. "How come?"

"We're soulmates, ain't we? Nothin's gonna change us." The rhythm guitarist replied sleepily. He quickly took Paul's hand in his and the bassist shivered a little.

"Chilly, ain't it?" Paul whispered, smiling.

John looked at him with warm eyes. "Well you better snuggle up to me then."

Paul disappeared for a moment when John closed his eyes and collapsed down onto the mattress once again, one slung arm across his chest and one at his side. He felt Paul's naked body press against his and watched his mind briefly take him back to Hamburg, where they all had to share beds, packed in like sardines in their bunks.

The rhythm guitarist hummed a little and rolled onto his side comfortably. Paul spooned him with one arm draped over his hip. The cover was pulled over their bare bodies as they huddled in closer together. John felt the darkness he had become so familiar with beckon him closer, warm and inviting.

"John?" Paul's voice whispered tentatively through the vastness.

It took nearly all of John's strength to mumble a reply. "Yeah, Paulie?"

"I feel bad," said the bassist, "for not pleasin' you like you pleased me." He pecked a small kiss on John's broad shoulder with his soft lips.

John's brow furrowed slightly. "I don't like it when you feel bad." He drawled. "'Makes me feel... bad."

Paul's bony hand rubbed the top of John's thigh, near his arse, and he breathed into John's neck. "Want me to make it up to you?"

The rhythm guitarist's brown eyes popped open when Paul's warm palm gently grasped his thigh. He pushed through the haze that had descended over his senses and his throat, growling ever so slightly, melted into deep honey. "Paul," he breathed, when the younger man's hands slid up and down his inner leg, "I'd love that."

Paul gravitated further into the curve of John's back. His thin hand, caressing the delicate skin of the older man's package, worked the semi that had been partly neglected not long ago; it seemed to perk up John instantly, as the bassist felt the rhythm guitarist press against him, his coarse hand had reached back to run his fingers through Paul's dark locks.

Every so often, Paul would plant a bevy of kisses on John's nape and back, making sure to suck every now and again. The tenderness of the kisses and the rough, ravishing nips and bites gelled well with the older man, who seemed to be breathing heavier every time Paul pumped his pulsing member.

The bassist felt his own libido heat up but focused his energy solely on pleasuring John. The rhythm guitarist bucked occasionally when Paul stroked with quickness, and moaned low and deep when he slowed down. He would whimper ever so slightly, his grip on Paul's dark hair tightening. The younger man closed his eyes and listened to John's shivers as if listening to his own personal symphony.

"Oh, Paul," John groaned, "F-Fuck..."

Paul increased speed suddenly and John's form tightened against his as he breathed in sharp and quick. Both men were panting now, Paul's forehead lightly shiny with perspiration, John's limbs tingling with powerful erotica. Paul's hand around John's prick sent waves of pleasure coursing through the older man's whole being. The bassist could feel John's heart hammering in his chest as the pressure in his groin built and built. Paul's own hardness ached but he didn't care.

Paul made sure to leave a love bite on the back of the older man's shoulder as he pumped John's hardness back and fourth. The heat from the member grasped in his palm radiated loudly. John's arse rocked rhythmically into the bassist's crotch until Paul was grunting lightly at the pressure.

John's jitters whistled past Paul's ears like fire. He felt the other man's hand tug his hair in pleasure, his chest heaving with bubbling sexual energy, until it felt like it would pop open.

"Shit..." moaned John, "'Gonna c-come..."

Paul took that as his cue to pump John's manhood faster and faster, his forearm aching, until suddenly John's laboured breaths hitched and there was silence for a beat, until the older man's form buckled as if being zapped by one thousand volts of pleasure and he was thrown head-first into orgasm. He released a long, loud moan that vibrated through Paul's chest as his seed spilled into the bassist's awaiting hand.

The rhythm guitarist shuddered and breathed heavily, his eyes rolling back into his skull, as he melted into Paul's embrace. The younger man panted with him, inhaling his scent, the wisps of auburn hair cushioning his heavy head of onyx silk. The older of the two finally managed to shuffle so that he was facing the younger man, and he gazed at him with stars in those dark, pooling eyes.

The musicians didn't speak, just held each other. John was still slightly out of breath, high off his orgasm, so Paul threw the cover off him in order to cool them both down.

"You think they heard that?" John huffed against Paul's slightly hairy chest.

Paul had his chin resting on top of John's skull. His foggy stare looked out of the window; the black, looming night waited outside like a panther, the stars akin to its glowing eyes. He kissed John's head. "I don't care," he whispered.

Their naked forms lay in the middle of the bed. The sheets swallowed them into the darkness of the cosmos, the sea of unconsciousness drowned them together, their grips on each other's skin like an anchor pulling them down from the choppy surface of worldly troubles.

They slept blissfully.

... ... ...

His clutch on the bedsheets had loosened since the noises had stopped.

George wallowed in the blackness of his room. His eyes were wider than he could control, his mouth agape.

That was the second time he had heard noises coming from Paul's room. It was the second time he hadn't been able to sleep. His face was pressed against his cold pillow, his orbs unblinking.

The moans unmistakably belonged to John. George didn't think he could breathe properly until silence had smothered the household once again. The lead guitarist prayed for any noise now, because the quiet was suffocating him, the void engulfing his thinning form. He was panting.

Sitting up in bed, the young man shivered as the cold nipped at his bare chest. He slung himself off the mattress and pulled on a large t-shirt that came down to about his mid-thigh.

The light from the hallway spilled into his room when he opened his door, tiptoeing outside into the corridor. His face was ashen, as he noticed John's bedroom door had been left wide open and the bed was empty. The pungent smell of marijuana filled the air. Ringo's door was closed: the man was a heavy sleeper, and George was envious. Paul's bedroom door was closed too. The bathroom light had been left on, the door ajar.

The lead guitarist crept across the carpet and flicked the bathroom light off. He eyed Paul's bedroom door warily, and put his ear against it; the faint sound of snoring drifted out from the white panels of wood. Grimacing, he shuffled away.

As he ambled downstairs, his reeling mind wandered.

No doubt about it, John and Paul had been having sex - or perhaps engaging in some other lude act - with one another. Simply the idea of the possibility astounded George into horror.

Because, even though George had nothing against gays, he still couldn't speculate his two supposed heterosexual friends doing those 'things' to each other. When John went on holiday with Brian to Spain, George thought of it as a little odd, but he never dwelled on it for too long.

Unless, John had gotten stoned, and Paul had gotten drunk out of his face, and they had accidentally started...

George sighed. That was ridiculous. He rounded the end of the staircase and walked through to the kitchen.

Maybe John was gay... or had a tendency to fall for men. During their early years, John and Stu spent a lot of time alone together: perhaps enough time alone to develop feelings outside of friendship. George remembered a few times Paul had gotten rather jealous of John and Stu's relationship. He'd sat silently through all of Paul and Stu's arguments, mopped up their sick, cleaned up their bloody noses and forehead gashes, and hadn't said a word.

Sometimes George felt it wouldn't really matter if he disappeared.

Would anyone even notice? Obviously Paul and John were so entangled in each other they wouldn't bat an eyelid, especially with Paul and his drinking, and with John high out of his mind on medication. Ringo was too tired to pay attention to much else apart from the joints he would smoke in the late afternoons, and by that point he didn't give a shit about much else.

George Harrison was just there most of the time, drifting in the void of invisibility. Whenever someone noticed him for long enough, it only lead to an exchange of heated words. He felt like shit, regardless of whether people spoke to him or not.

George's feet padded across the cold tiles as he swiped a note pad and pen from the counter and sat himself heavily at the kitchen table.

He looked down at the paper with a suddenly blank mind.

Picking up the pen, he pressed it on the pad and stared long and hard. Then, he wrote:

'I've become entrenched in this never-ending quagmire of emptiness for far too long.'

The pen stopped in motion and the man slammed the note pad closed suddenly. George felt bitterness and regret and anger bubble inside of him but his outside shell remained cool and stone-like. He didn't make a sound.

Didn't they know? Didn't they figure that it was tearing George apart: how everyone had something, or someone, except him. All he had was his loneliness. He felt like he was drowning in it.

Suddenly, his stomach lurched. George skidded over to the sink and felt his throat burn like hot coals when he vomited. For the longest moment, he wretched: willowy body shaking over the sink like it was possessed. His belly growled furiously, his head thumping, his ears hot. The lead guitarist was trembling so badly, he felt he would collapse.

The young man figured this episode was from his lacklustre diet of cigarettes and the occasional cup of tea. He didn't concern himself with eating much anymore, or anything else for that matter.

Empty.

He felt empty.

George turned on the tap and quickly swilled out the bitter taste of bile from his mouth, before lighting a cigarette. He disappeared back up the stairs again.

... ... ...

It was morning, finally. The night seemed to stretch on and on like a never-ending spiral. The pale light of the new day bathed the room in a wash of ivory glow, however, the bed was empty.

Ringo had been awake since four o'clock, busying himself with his daily shave and shower, preparing breakfast, sorting out John's new meds, checking the newspaper for any tabloid trash about them - finding a few small articles about their future record in time for Christmas - and finishing off another carton of cigarettes. Brian had phoned earlier in the morning to say that he was taking Mimi on a tour of London and that they would be back in the evening.

By the time the drummer had heard the sounds of wakefulness drift through the floorboards from upstairs, he had already booked the studio at Abbey Road for later that day. Ringo thought that boredom lead to frustration, which lead to everyone being in a foul mood with each other, and he had experienced enough of that in the past weeks than he would in his whole lifetime.

Paul and John were the first to arrive downstairs. Aside from being obviously hungover, John appeared a little more down than usual, though he was almost glued to the bassist's side as the two musicians entered the living room. Ringo could only guess Lennon was nervous because he was going to start the new meds, and so decided not to comment on John's behaviour.

"Mornin', you two," greeted Ringo half-heartedly.

"Mornin'," Paul smiled back. John mumbled something unintelligible.

Ringo's azure eyes watched the rhythm guitarist. The rhythm guitarist practically hung from Paul's arm like a paper doll. Paul didn't seem to notice - or perhaps he did but refused to show it - and went about with making a cup of tea.

"Want a tea, Ring?" He asked.

Ringo shook his mahogany head of mop-top hair, despite Paul having his back to him. "No, ta, I've already 'ad one."

The bassist then murmured to John quietly, and John nodded. Paul reached for a second mug from the cupboard. Ringo raised an eyebrow but focused on eating his cornflakes instead. "Is George up, d'you know?" He inquired between a mouthful of food.

Paul shook his head. "No idea," the bassist replied. "Where's Brian an' Mimi?"

"Goin' sightseein'; they should be back in the evenin'." Ringo made a curt noise in his throat and went back to his breakfast promptly. After swallowing down some spoonfuls of cereal, the drummer noticed a black leather note book on the table and, curiously, moved it closer to him using his fingers.

When he opened the book, he saw nothing out of the ordinary: song lyrics, some obscure doodles, phone numbers, album name ideas. He turned another page and stopped for a moment: it looked like George's handwriting. He read the page over a few more times.

'I've become entrenched in this never-ending quagmire of emptiness for far too long.'

Ringo frowned to himself. He suddenly found it hard to lift up his spoon from the bowl, his hard eyes scanning the scribbled words over and over.

"What're you readin'?"

Ringo looked up; John had finally plucked himself from Paul's side and had sat opposite the drummer at the kitchen table. His dark eyes were large and rippling with morbid curiosity. Ringo suspected John knew something wasn't quite right.

"Ah, nothin'," the older man lied, "just some old song lyrics." His gaze shifted to Paul for a moment. "Oh, that reminds me; I booked us the studio later today around 3 o'clock. That alright?"

Paul, who was still busy with the tea, nodded absently. "Yeah, sure,"

Ringo looked back over to John. "You up for it today, Lennon? S'okay if you aren't-"

"Yeah," the rhythm guitarist said quickly, "I'm up fer it."

Ringo closed the note book when Paul's blatantly plastered sunny face appeared beside John. He put down two mugs of tea on the table and a vividly orange pill.

The room fell into cold silence for what seemed like an eternity.

"Do you want me to-" Paul began.

"No," John said. "I'll do it."

With fumbling digits, the rhythm guitarist fiddled with the tablet before placing it on his tongue and swallowing it down with a sip of tea. He shuddered a little when it didn't quite go down all the way.

"Thanks, John," Paul said with a quiet voice. He touched the man's bicep delicately. Ringo watched the two of them a moment longer before he cleared his throat.

"Eh, so any of you got any ideas for songs?" He asked.

Paul took a swig of tea. "I think so... what about if we touch up 'I'll Follow The Sun'? It was a Cavern hit, a song I wrote yonks ago, like, but I did nout with it."

Ringo's mind reeled back to the evening they spent huddled around Paul, dazed, in John's arms.

"Yeah," John chimed in timidly, "that's a gear plan."

"It's settled then. We'll start draftin' today in the studio. Someone should probably tell George-"

The rhythm guitarist was out of his seat suddenly. "I will," he chipped, but had to steady himself for a moment when he stood up too quick. Paul's firm grip was on the slightly older man's wrist in an instant.

"Y'alright, steady on, John."

"S'okay," he breathed, "I got it." They locked eyes for a beat longer and then the rhythm guitarist was out the living room door, his footsteps padding up the stairs.

Paul gulped down some of his tea, oblivious to Ringo's puzzled stare. The bassist smiled brightly, "At least that'll give 'im somethin' to look forward to."

... ... ...

John felt his shaky legs travel him up the stairs until, finally, he came to a stop outside George's room. He knocked, and, hearing no reply, cracked open the door and gingerly poked his head through. "'Ello?" He whispered.

The quiet only maximised the groan of the door when John pushed it further, managing to shimmy, like a cautious animal, into the dim room and look around its four walls curiously. Suddenly, he felt very detached, like he hadn't been in the room once in his whole life.

"George?" He called quietly.

John stepped through and saw the bed sheets neatly folded at the bottom end of the mattress. From that inclination, the man knew he wouldn't find George, but he felt drawn to the honey pigmented guitar which lay on the ivory bed covers temptingly - almost provocatively. John let his hand reach out to touch its cool, smooth surface with curious fingers. Running his coarse digits over the dark fret board, the rhythm guitarist wrapped his fist around the neck of the instrument and he held the curved bottom of the guitar as if he was cradling a newborn. The vibrations of the caught strings floated through the chambers and echoed in the silent room. John's eyes fluttered closed for a brief moment.

"What are you doin'?"

The dark eyes popped open again, and the rhythm guitarist had to steady himself from nearly dropping the instrument out of surprise. Somehow, he managed to keep his grip - and his nerve. George Harrison's painfully thin frame seemed silhouetted in the dimness of the bedroom.

"Uh..." John began, "I was just lookin'."

George was nerve-wrackingly quiet. John's clammy palms shifted the instrument anxiously in his hold.

"That's my Gibson," the younger man stated calmly, "I'd appreciate it if you didn't touch it without my sayin' so, John."

As well as the slight darkness, John's poor eyesight made it virtually impossible to see the lead guitarist clearly from his hunched stance in the doorway.

"I'm real sorry, George." John said. He saw George's skeletal shape slink into the room, closer, until finally the two men were only separated by the guitar between their tense bodies.

John suddenly felt horribly intimidated by the younger man, like a dark, dangerous energy was radiating from him. The rhythm guitarist's breath hitched in his throat when George's large hands wrapped around the neck and the bottom of the Gibson and it was gently pulled away from John's chest: the child taken from his arms.

"It's alright," George whispered, placing the guitar onto the stand in the corner. "I didn't mean to scare ya'." John found the younger man's cool behaviour oddly unnerving, and watched him with caution and tension tightening every coil in his body. If he had to, John was ready to run.

"Ringo... Ringo wanted me to tell you we have a recordin' session."

George's thick eyebrows raised, but still his face seemed almost unreadable. "Oh." He mulled, "What time?"

The rhythm guitarist swallowed. "I don't remember..."

The two lapsed into silence again. John had the material of his large jumper wrapped in one fist nervously, rhythmically clenching, while his other hand was fidgeting at his side. He looked down at his shoes and then to the door longingly.

"You can go, if you want," George said.

John's gaze snapped to the younger man's shadowed face and he mumbled a quick reply before speeding out of the room and downstairs again.

George heard the vibration of voices murmur from downstairs. He felt the loneliness creep up against him once again, pin him against the wall, smother him, until the lead guitarist was on the floor in a shaking heap. His harrowing, muddy eyes attached themselves to the open door, the windows to his aching soul almost blackened with despair.

... ... ...

Ringo decided to drive to the studio later that day. George had taken refuge with him up front, sitting in the passenger seat beside him, though he hadn't removed his sombre glare from the window since they had started the journey, and he hadn't said a word all morning.

Paul was sat behind Ringo in the back seat. Occasionally, he would cast his hazel eyes to the front of the vehicle and look in the mirror at Ringo's concentrated stare, but all his other efforts were spent fussing over John, also in the back, but sat behind George. The bassist would touch his forearm every so often, caress the back of his hand, and try to look as subtle as possible, but Ringo knew something was most certainly up.

The rhythm guitarist was as silent as George. He had heavy eyes that rolled around in their sockets every time the car hit a pocket in the road. His head rested against the window lazily, his mouth agape, like he was speaking, but there was no sound. The drummer suspected it would take John some getting used to before the medication wouldn't make him so dopey. Paul was trying to engage him in mindless chit-chat, but John wasn't fully able to respond, too focused on keeping awake than to hold a conversation.

Ringo chewed the inside of his cheek impatiently as the afternoon London traffic clogged the busy roads like a blocked drain. He drummed his ringed fingers on the steering wheel, hearing Paul's sing-song voice gently wafting from the back of the vehicle. The eldest of the musicians glanced at the two from mirror.

"How you gettin' on back there, John?" He asked with his deep voice.

The dark orbs shifted from the window with sleepy fashion and crawled their gaze in Ringo's direction. The man blinked; if the drummer didn't know any better, John's russet eyes appeared slightly puffy, as if he had been crying. "I'm good," he said with lacklustre. Paul squirmed ever so slightly in his seat.

Ritchie raised an eyebrow. "Sure?"

John nodded and hummed quietly, his eyes rolling back to the window.

"If you say so, lad."

The traffic finally moved after five minutes of oddly tense silence, and the Beatles eventually made it to Abbey Road studios without further incidents.

Ringo helped George silently unload their guitars from the boot of the car, as John and Paul shuffled through the front door of the studio.

"Mornin', Freda," Ringo sighed as he and George made their way in. The receptionist nodded in response sullenly, and the two musicians found themselves in the recording studio. John was sat on a chair looking down at his shoes quietly. Paul was talking to George Martin in that hushed tone he used whenever he was concerned.

The drummer and the lead guitarist put down the instruments in their respective stands and sat themselves in their respective corners. Ringo remembered being at the coffee table when John punched him, and suddenly felt he would be struck again if he sat there, so he mulled over by his drum kit, adjusting the cymbals carefully.

George pulled out a cigarette and lit it. He sat on a chair near the recording booth, eyes harder them granite, burning hotter than the cherry on the nicotine stick he sucked on.

After about five minutes of quiet conversation, the producer and the bassist broke off from each other. Paul went back to John, who had buried his head in his hands tiredly, and George Martin had went back in his booth, like a bird returning to its nest.

More hushed talking. John kept nodding. Paul kept touching his knee. Ringo wanted to go back to bed, as did George. The atmosphere in the studio was as cold as the Autumn day outside.

"What are we doin' then, Paul?" Ringo asked from his drum kit.

The dark-haired man looked up from the rhythm guitarist and, for a moment, appeared to be lost in his own world. "Uh," he said, "I think we'll do 'I'll Follow The Sun'." He stalked across the wooden floor and grabbed his acoustic. "I remember the chords from first writin' 'em but they might need polishing up a bit."

He sat down at the coffee table and scribbled down some notes in a book after strumming a few chords on his guitar. "It ain't really a ballad... too fast to be one, but it's a gentle number so I don't think we'll need drums on this, Ritch, although we can try it, see how it sounds, yeah?"

The drummer nodded.

"George," Paul addressed, "see if you can come up with a lick or a riff or somethin' on your acoustic. The key is C Major, I'll tell you some more chords when I get to them."

The lead guitarist obeyed silently.

Finally, the bassist turned to John with worried eyes. "Alright, Johnny, all you have to do is strum along. I'll be playing my acoustic too as well as bass, so you'll be the rhythm, is that okay?"

The older man looked up from his hands and Paul could see the frailty in those dark orbs. "Y-Yeah, okay. Can you show me?"

Paul smiled sadly. "Would you like to sing harmonies with me too? You can do the low part, if you want."

John nodded. "Okay."

The four musicians set off to work. Paul had managed to recall most of the old chords for the song and had re-worked some of the lyrics, while he taught John the finger positions for the chords and ran through the song.

"This, John," said the bassist gently, "is a Dm7 chord. It's on the fifth fret... the fifth fret, John, that's the fourth." Paul chuckled a little under his breath. "Okay, so barr that fret with your first finger - good! Okay, so now you put your second finger on the second string of the sixth fret, just next to it." The dark-haired man watched as John struggled to get his second digit to co-operate. "Alright, so then you put your third finger on the fourth string of the seventh fret." John and Paul both strummed downwards together, the older man's chord coming out slightly muted but still recognisable. "There you go!"

John smiled sleepily. "I think I got it now." He strummed again, much to Paul's appraisal.

The bassist turned to their lead guitarist. "How you gettin' on with that riff, George?"

"Just fine," the youngest said with a dreary voice. "I think I've got a lick sorted out."

Paul noticed John's eyes seemed to hang on George's brooding form for a tense moment, before moving back to Paul's face. He swallowed with a thick throat and his dark orbs almost spoke a million nothing's, but he was gone again when he blinked; John's sheepish demeanour returned.

After some discussion and practice, the boys finally went to run through the song for the first time. Paul gave them the cue, and it seemed everything was going smoothly until it came to the chorus, where John forgot to sing entirely. The lads stopped playing.

"You alright, John?" Paul asked.

"Yeah," the man replied, looking up from his guitar, "why?"

"You forgot to sing..."

"Oh! Sorry!"

"No, don't worry, we'll go again. Ready? 1... 2... 3... 4."

The second take went through with a few hiccups here and there, mostly from John, but Paul stopped again for a different reason.

"Ringo... I don't think the drums are workin'." He said into the mic. Ringo looked pensively at his drum kit.

"Maybe I can clap?" He proposed.

Paul seemed to mull the suggestion over. "Do you think it would echo too much? What about tapping on some sort of box or-"

"How about me knees?"

"Eh?"

The drummer said again. "My knees; it wouldn't be too loud, kind of a nice texture to it too."

The bassist blinked. "Ah, go on then. We'll try it."

The song played through again. As Ringo tapped, he could see Paul's face scrunch in discontent as he sang, especially when it came to George's brief solo. He could almost see the bassist's nerves fray a little with each take. They played it through again, and again, Paul's mood brooding considerably.

He looked up at George Martin in the booth with hopeless eyes. "This isn't soundin' right... any suggestions?" He asked.

The producer seemed to look as weary as the other musicians. "Perhaps it's just this song, Paul. Do you have any others you'd like to record today?"

"No, I like this track," disagreed Paul shortly, "I think it would be good on the album, distinguish us a bit... we don't want to end up soundin' the same as everyone else."

Mr Martin sighed. "I'm not sure... talk it out - maybe you'll come up with something. I'm getting a coffee." The producer quickly scurried from the booth like a desperate animal.

"What do you think it is, lads?" Paul asked.

John's voice was quiet. "I think-"

"You're just bein' fussy, Paul," George muttered from his seat, "the song sounds fine, just stop with it."

"George, you interrupted John!" Scolded Ringo.

"Oh, shut up, Ringo; stop playin' policeman and stick to playin' drums." The lead guitarist scowled.

Paul's eyes widened. "George, what the fuck's the matter with you lately!?" The man held his bass with an outraged grip, gaping at the younger man, who seemed to shrink further into himself in furious anger. John sat silently.

"You're bein' childish," Ringo said from his seat.

Paul took on the tone of an angry parent. "You're being really difficult, George."

"Stop lookin' for attention,"

"Honestly, you're actin' so weird,"

"We're all working really hard so stop complaining,"

"I think you're the one who needs to be in therapy-"

George had curled so far into himself that he finally burst in a terrifying blaze of fiery rage. His mouth ripped open, a seemingly deafening screech tearing from his throat - a bloody cry - and his hands, appearing as claws, threw down his guitar with an echoing crash, the strings exploding from the fret board. The claws found their way into the trembling mop of dark, untamed hair and grabbed and tugged and pulled, unrelenting, at the roots. His legs were stock, his hunched form shaking uncontrollably with flowing ire. "SHUT THE FUCK UP."

The room fell into shocked silence, save for George's animalistic pants.

His hands fell to his sides. "You've ruined everything," he directed at Paul, "you've ruined it - ruined us." His voice seemed so drained that Ringo stood from his seat in case the young man collapsed from exhaustion. His dark eyes were lifeless. "I don't want to do this anymore." He wobbled over to the door.

Ringo called after him with a scared voice. "George."

"I can't do this," he seemed to repeat, as if his melting brain was stuck on a loop, "I can't do this."

He was gone, his voice echoing behind him as he trudged down the corridor.

The three musicians stared at each other.

... ... ...

(HELLO.

I am SO sorry about this incredibly long gap in updating. I've been really busy with a lot lately: exams, therapy, and - most notably - Christmas preparation.

I hope this chapter pleased you! It was a bit difficult to write but I got there in the end. Consider it my Christmas present, From Me To You, hehe. I hope everyone has a happy holiday and everyone stays safe!

I love you all, I'll see you next year probably... because I take so long to update. Boo.

LOVE YOU, from, omgringo.)


	23. There's A Place

**(I'm so sorry this chapter has taken so long. Hopefully this one will be worth the wait. This update has some sexual content so be warned.)**

... ... ...

The anger seethed through him like a surge of molten lava. George heaved his chest outwards furiously with erratic breaths, as he stalked down the corridor with trembling strides. His fingers were rigid like stone when he threw open the door to Abbey Road Studios and took the steps two at a time until he was hyperventilating and collapsed onto the last step. Tears stung his eyes and his throat was on fire, his breathing almost like glass in his lungs. He had one shaking hand wrapped around the steel banister of the steps and one hand pressed against his face; the world around him spun so fast, he thought he was going to vomit.

He hadn't eaten in so fucking long... he couldn't even remember the last meal he had, and thinking about food only wanted to make him puke more. What he needed was a cigarette.

He hurriedly got his trembling hand to co-operate and pulled out the crumpled cigarette carton from his trouser pocket. Using his lighter, the lead guitarist jittered until the cigarette in between his lips had ignited and then took a long, hefty drag. The nicotine rush electrocuted his senses, the spinning world twirling faster, but leaving him feeling more collected. After a few puffs, the young man had stopped his hurried breathing and sat silently once again.

A few cars dribbled by on the road, the breeze rustling the Autumn leaves like tambourines. Every now and again, blackbirds would twitter overhead and perch on some of the tree branches. George squinted up at them and took another drag of the cigarette, before gazing back at the road again.

He sat for what seemed like hours. There was a feeling in the back of his skull pushing the idea forward that, perhaps, walking straight out into the path of an oncoming car wouldn't be the most insane thing to do right then, or laying down in the middle of the street and waiting for a vehicle to roll him over wasn't as crazy as he first thought.

Another car sped over the zebra crossing right outside the studio. In his mind's eye, he saw John in that dark alley step back and collide into the bumper of the black car. He heard the sound of John's head smack off the hood and then the cobbled pavement: the noise ricocheted around his mind like a bullet. He heard Paul's blood-curdling scream rip apart his skull.

George screwed shut his eyes and took another drag of the cigarette in order to calm himself, when footsteps shuffled in quietly from behind him. He felt someone slide in next to him on the bottom step. No one said a word in that moment, but George heard the flick of a lighter and the scent of another cigarette burn into the air.

"You alright?" Ringo asked shortly.

It took George two more slow drags on the cigarette until he replied. "What do you think?"

Engines passed outside the studio, down the road, off into the distant London traffic that plagued the city. Ringo scuffed his shoe with a tired expression. His gruff voice seemed to melt weakly into the wind. "I think everything's fucked: no one's alright anymore."

George wanted to reply but quietly nodded instead. Ringo inhaled the nicotine before he coughed with a chesty wheeze.

The lead guitarist watched the road with glossy eyes. After a long, thoughtful silence, his thick tone announced, "Do you ever get the feelin' that it just doesn't matter?"

As if he hadn't spoken in years, the drummer's naturally sombre gaze fell on George's stone-like features. He ran his eyes over the younger man's expression in scrutiny. "Sometimes," he said.

"Like I could just walk out into the road, right now, an' get ran over..." he looked over at Ringo's sorrowful face with those mahogany eyes and stared long and hard with a muted desperation, "and it wouldn't even matter."

The silence that followed was cold: so cold that it made George Harrison shiver.

"Don't say that, George..." Ringo mumbled, "we've already had to go through that with John-"

"Oh, but it's always about John, ain't it?" The guitarist said angrily.

The drummer looked at the lead guitarist with his bottom lip open in quiet surprise. His blue gaze shifted back to the gravel and he took another drag. "How long 'ave you been feelin' like this?"

The younger man felt the anxiety build and build inside his stomach until he swore he'd be sick. He almost had to stop himself from gagging. "I don't know," he answered.

"Well," Ringo started, "I've been depressed too, George-"

The older man dribbled on, while George's mind twisted in on itself and his skull thumped painfully.

"-I was a kid and-"

His gaze was locked onto the road madly. He couldn't even hear the traffic anymore. He couldn't hear Ringo. He couldn't hear himself breathing. He couldn't hear the wind rustling the trees or the birds singing. The lead guitarist was certain he was hyperventilating again, but he wasn't sure.

"-rough fuckin' area-"

George felt the ash from the cigarette catch on his bone-like hands, and, though it burned, it didn't compare to the pain he experienced flashing before him.

"-in an' outta hospital-"

He wanted to make any noise he could but his throat felt like it had closed up tighter than a compactor crushing cars. He felt dizzy again, like he was about to die, vomit, and faint all at the same time. George suddenly found that his wobbly legs had picked him up off the steps and, for a shocked moment, he stood stone still.

"George?"

Then, like he was being controlled by a twisted puppet master, George Harrison took off, darting in the direction of the road. As the wind rushed past his ears, he heard Ringo's hysterical vocals from behind him.

"George! Fuckin' _stop_!"

His spindly legs had managed to carry him to the small concrete wall of the car park entrance, before he stumbled and had to grab onto the stone to keep himself up. Ringo's oddly strong grip had pulled him back, by the time he had managed to blink.

George proved to be having a difficult time keeping it together, before he started to wretch to the side of the road, Ringo's secure arm slung over the lead guitarist's scarily thin back in a brotherly way. After getting nothing up but bile, George slid down the wall in exhaustion, his emotions bubbling over, and he started to shake with distraught sobs. The drummer sat next to him on the pavement and pulled him into a tight hug.

"I read the note," he said with his deep, soothing voice. He rubbed George's back gently. He was warm. It was like a protective entity wrapping his loving arms around George. The younger man screwed shut his eyes and focused on the older man's touch and his words, trying to drown out all other distractions. "I feel empty too."

George finally brought his heavy arms up and reached around to hug the older man back. His chest wheezed, his teeth chattered, his eyelids felt heavy, his stomach felt sickly; everything hurt, but George couldn't imagine himself feeling any more comfortable and at home than in Ringo's arms.

"I just want to feel like I belong," George mumbled into Ringo's shoulder, "I want us to be a family again."

"We are a family," Richard reassured with his soft voice, "we're just goin' through this rough patch, but we'll pull through, won't we?"

George breathed into Ringo's collarbone until he felt his cheeks heat up from the warmth trapped in the hug.

Ringo said again, "_won't we_?"

"Yeah..." George whispered. He burrowed his thick mop of hair further into Ringo's shoulder and waited until the storm in his mind had subsided.

... ... ...

"Where were you?" Paul asked, trying his best not to sound angry but failing, "You've been gone for an hour."

Ringo ambled back over to his seat. "Went for a ciggie, just coolin' down, _alright_? That okay?"

The bassist looked a little peeved. "It's fine..." he rolled his fingers across his forearm nonchalantly as he watched George take a seat and nestle the acoustic guitar in his lap. "Erm..." he started carefully, "George?" The younger man looked up. "John was thinking maybe you could try usin' the electric instead of the acoustic for this track; it could make the song... '_pop_' a little more, y'know?"

"Same riff?" The younger man asked quietly.

Paul nodded. "Yeah... we just thought it would sound-"

"I got it." George nodded, and quickly swiped the electric guitar from its stand not too far away. He began to practice the riff with shaky fingers.

The bassist promptly fell into a hurt silence, but plastered on that charming smile when he turned to look at John, and Ringo thought how fucking sad they all were.

This wasn't a band anymore; this was a fucking support group; this was as dysfunctional as a family could get; this was the feeling of the last fibre of rope unravelling in your hands and watching yourself plummet to the bottom of an endless abyss; this was truly the beginning of the end for The Beatles, and suddenly Ringo wanted nothing more than to dim the lights and crawl into a corner to weep, yet he stayed patiently still and stone-like, until it was time for him to start clapping along with the others.

After running through the track a few times, Paul seemed satisfied enough with the playing. He quickly double-tracked the bass in a few takes so it could be played under the song and turned to John, who was idly looking down at his shoes.

"Alright, John how about we put your harmonies in?" The bassist asked him when he approached. For a moment, the older man gazed into Paul's eyes with an afraid glimmer, but he nodded and shuffled over to the microphone. "I've got the lyrics here, on this paper." Paul said, and joined him.

They slid on their earphones and waited for George Martin to do a run over of the previous vocals before they were to double-track them. John could feel Paul's gaze penetrating him. Suddenly, he didn't know what to do with his hands: they were trembling against his thighs erratically.

John could feel the heat from Paul's body radiate against him as they neared the microphone, their faces dangerously close. The rhythm guitarist could smell the bassist's breath: coffee, cigarettes: it was a musky smell but John found himself leaning in closer, until their noses were almost touching.

"Ready lads?" George Martin called from the booth. Paul hastily stuck a thumbs up in his direction and the music flooded through the headphones. Paul's gaze was locked with John's.

"_And now the time has come,_

_And so my love, I must go._

_And though I lose a friend, in the end_

_You will know, oh_."

John had to stop himself from tearing up as their harmonies reached the air, electrifying the room in a sorrowful passion. He found his hand clutching to Paul's forearm as they sang, his body quivering.

It didn't matter to Paul that Ringo and George were watching them. Paul felt the overwhelming urge to break away from the microphone and kiss John, shove him against a wall and touch every inch of his trembling body. The bassist almost missed the chorus, before he caught himself in the moment.

"_And now the time has come,_

_And so my love I must go._

_And though I lose a friend, in the end_

_You will know, oh_."

John's heartbeat thumped in his ears. Resisting the seductive sedative effects of his medication, the rhythm guitarist felt the slightly unsettling twinge of a high overcome him, like his fingers had fell into sleep before his brain, his ears - not only picking up the sound from the headphones - flooding with music from a different level of existence all together. He heard Paul's longing moans. He heard the sound of rain rattling off a tinny roof, he heard the ocean rolling in: a crescendo of noise. It seemed so loud and so resilient that it made John's toes curl inside his shoes, his fingernails dig into his palms, his teeth grind painfully together. He wanted stability, the room was alive and rocking and spinning, the amplifiers and the instruments buzzing with the feedback from his brain, growling at him. Paul had managed to drift away from him, a thousand fucking miles away. He couldn't hear anything anymore. Was he breathing? Was he even alive?

John blinked.

Three angels stared into his pallid face.

"You scared the shit out of me," said one of the angels, he had a pair of pretty, hazel eyes.

"You alright, John?" Said another. He had eyes like a summer sky.

The third angel said nothing at all.

The man finally found his words, after staring stupidly for a long moment without reacting. "Yeah," he nodded, "I'm gear. What's the craic?"

"The _craic_?" The first angel griped in exasperation, "you nearly fuckin' _fainted_."

"Oh."

"Maybe this was a bad idea," said the second angel.

The silent angel had walked away, towards the man watching in the booth, and mumbled a question. "Did you get a decent take?"

The man in the booth managed to nod, despite his sudden sickly appearance. His voice came in through the room. "I managed to get enough of the vocals to double-track onto the original. Go home, lads; I don't want John recording if he isn't well."

John looked at the two men with genuine curiosity. "You aren't... You aren't angels, are you?" He asked quietly.

The pair of hazel eyes widened in a frightened concern, as if his livelihood, his happiness had crumbled before him.

"No," said the second man, "we're your friends." He took John's arm in his big hands. "Let's go home, yeah?"

... ... ...

John was tired.

He had fallen asleep on the way back home, and he had fallen asleep after his friends had managed to drag him inside. Or at least, he imagined he was asleep. Perhaps he was stuck in limbo: purgatory: halfway between the conscious and the unconscious.

"I thought anti-psychotics were supposed to make you _less_ psychotic."

"It's his first day on 'em, Paul; he needs to adjust. He was dead tired, he might have been a bit delirious."

"I'll say... to think we were angels, for fuck sakes."

"Yeah..."

"Ringo... can I be honest with you?"

"Go on,"

"I don't know how to fuckin' cope anymore."

"Paul, I don't think _anyone_ knows how to fuckin' cope anymore."

"We're not gettin' this album done in time, that's for sure."

"Fuck the album. We need to look after John and ourselves before our career. I don't give a fuck what the record company says, we can't produce albums if one of us is ill, can we?"

There was a seemingly painful silence on Paul's end.

"I just don't want us to fade away."

"We ain't fadin' anywhere, Paul. We're just takin' our time to get back into this shit storm. You can't play bass with a broken arm, can you?"

"No..."

"Exactly. Everyone else will just have to suck it up, if they have a problem."

A sudden air of fatigue, mixed with the negativity, breathed heavily and wistfully around the room.

"What happened with you and George then?" Paul asked quietly, his voice low as if he was scared to wake a slumbering child.

"Ah," mumbled the drummer, "well I don't really know."

"I don't get you,"

"I don't _know_ what happened. One minute, we were sittin' on the steps 'avin a ciggie, the next, he nearly ended up in the bloody road."

Paul gasped with a small noise in his throat. "You're jokin'!?"

"I wish," Ringo said, "I had to pull 'im back; it was like 'e was possessed or somethin'."

Paul had put down his cup of tea with a bit too much force, causing the drummer to tut a little. "I can't believe it... our George, nearly doin' something as stupid as that!" The bassist's surprised tone had quickly turned to horrified anger. "Didn't he think about what 'appened to John?"

"Must've been thinkin' about somethin' else..." Richard spoke softly, with sorrow, and in his sleep John's forehead wrinkled.

John stretched a little on the sofa, then tucked his knees up to his chest to salvage the little warmth that had been sucked out of the room when George entered.

"I'm goin' out," he said.

Ringo made a scared noise in his throat. "It's a bit late, ennit, George?"

Despite his qualms, the front door slammed shut before anyone could utter another word.

"Moody git," Paul muttered under his breath.

"Paul…"

"No, Ringo. I think you know a lot more than I do, but George is being a selfish, little brat, and he needs to stop."

The drummer tried his best to reason with the temperamental bassist. "I think he's just havin' a hard time dealin' with all this: he's only a kid."

The younger man seemed to have moved when he spoke again, as John could sense his being closer than it was before. "I don't care, it still doesn't give him the excuse to give us all the cold shoulder." A little breeze travelled with him when he passed John's supposedly sleeping form on the sofa into the kitchen. "I mean, imagine what John must be thinkin'." His voice lowered at that.

What was he thinking? Not a lot really, especially when he was on his medication. He thought about Paul a lot, but in his childlike, pill-induced wonderment, he questioned whether Paul was being as good towards the others as he was to him. His voice sounded angry and tired, like when Mimi used to nag at him when he brought mud tracks into the house, or when he got angry and broke the plates. Whenever the two men were alone, John felt like nothing could touch them. He wished he could understand.

Paul's footsteps padded back into the sitting room, and he dragged his fingers lightly through John's auburn hair. He had a soft voice, and John felt his stomach grow fuzzy and warm at the sound of it. "I just need to protect him."

Ringo had a sad, sad voice. "We all want to protect him. It feels like you're depriving him of being with anyone other than you, sometimes."

"I'm not," the bassist said angrily, "It's just that none of you bother with him. I feel like I'm doin' all the work around 'ere."

"Fuck off with that bullshit," argued the drummer. His sorrowful tone had swiftly turned to one of frustration. "Have you been to a counselling session with him? Have you bothered to check in with Doctor Robert about how his exercises are goin'? Have you even bothered to help him with his exercises!?"

"At least I don't go off and get high when he needs me the most," Paul spat.

John, even with his eyes closed - screwed shut at this point - could tell that Ringo's expression was one of hurt. "You're just as bad as me, and you fuckin' know it."

Paul didn't respond, only stroked John's head a little harder than necessary.

"Jesus Christ, look at yourself, Paul," Richard murmured, "You look like shit. You're a mess. Stop bein' a total control freak for once and do something."

"He needs me," Paul said.

"We need both of you," Ringo's voice wobbled. "I'm gonna try find George, before 'e hurts himself."

There was a beat of silence before, the front door slammed again. The whole house shook a little, before the quiet came flooding in from every crevice and every nook and cranny, until it was almost deafening.

Paul didn't stop caressing John's head for a good while after, until the rhythm guitarist finally drifted off the sleep.

… … …

The man had worked himself into a half-tipsy stupor in little less than an hour of arriving home.

He had ran himself a hot bath, dived into a beautiful bottle of red he found in the cupboard, and slipped into a silk gown before he even thought about the tiring day that had graced him (or perhaps cursed him, he wasn't sure).

The man was walking down the corridor, towards the steaming bath that awaited him sensually in the bathroom, when a shrill noise rang from the living room. He groaned in annoyance.

Footsteps trudging heavily across the carpet, he made his way to the sitting room, picked up the phone briskly from the cradle, and held it to his ear.

"This is the Epstein residence, with whom am I speaking?" He said politely, though he felt like grinding his teeth together.

"_Brian_," came a rather hushed voice from the other end, "_It's Paul_."

"Oh," sighed the manager immediately, "hello Paul."

"_Hi. Do you have a minute to talk?_"

Brian's gaze fell longingly towards the bathroom. "Erm… well, I suppose I could talk, for a moment."

"_John started his medication today_,"

The manager was a little wistful. "I was well aware of that, Paul."

"_I don't think it's workin_'," said the voice on the end of the line. It was wobbly.

"What do you mean?" Asked Brian, lightly furrowing his brow.

"_He had an episode today, in the recording studio: he thought we were angels_."

Brian had quickly scampered to the kitchen counter, while he carried the telephone awkwardly in the nape of his neck, to grab a pad of paper and a pen. "Right… well I'll talk to Doctor Rigby about that at the next session, which should be… the day after next." The manager finished making the note and ran a hand down his face tiredly. "Anything else?"

There was a heavy silence on the other end.

"Paul?"

There was a shuffle, a sort of hitch of breath, and Brian could make out laboured breathing. The manager felt anxiety bite into his heart and his whole body became tense.

"Paul? Are you there? Can you hear me?"

Nothing. A long beat of quiet flooded through the telephone.

"Paul, you're scaring me, are you alright?"

A shuffle. People were speaking, quietly, from somewhere beyond the phone. There was a large chortle, one of sorrow. Footsteps.

The phone became clear again, as did a voice. "_Hello_?"

Brian's eyes were wide, his forehead wrinkled in confusion. "John?"

"_Oh, hi, Brian_." Came a sleepy tone. Brian wondered if John had been drinking, or whether it was just his meds. "_How are you?_"

"Fine. Where's Paul?" The manager asked.

"_He went to the toilet. He's crying, I think._"

Brian sagged into the counter he was resting on, a little more at ease, but now with a distinct weight of sorrow resting on his heart. "Oh... So how are you feeling, John?"

"_Tired_," the musician said, "_These… these new pills make me…_" more shuffling. Brian was beginning to become frustrated.

The phone was passed again. "_Sorry about that, Brian_." Paul said, with a fake sort of lighthearted tone that the manager didn't buy into.

"Are you okay, Paul?" He asked wearily.

"_Yeah, yeah_," Paul's voice quickly distanced itself on the other end of the phone, "_John, go lay down, I'll be there in a minute._" His voice became clearer once more. "_Yeah, I'm alright, I'm always okay, I am._"

"I don't really believe you," Brian said.

"_Well... There's nothin' to worry about. I just wanted to tell you about John's episode._"

The manager breathed heavily. "And not about yourself? Look, my bath is probably stone cold by now so if you want to say something, just say it."

Another pause. "_Do you think I'm a bad person_?"

At this question, Brian was taken aback. Paul could be insecure from time to time, but that was mostly about his appearance. The manager stuttered a little. "Erm… no, Paul, no, you're a good man."

"_Really_?"

"Yes… my, my, lad, what's got you feeling this way?"

"_Brian_?"

The manager felt anxiety pitch at his throat when Paul's voice became teary and wobbly over the phone. "Yes?"

"_Would you be mad at me… would you be mad… if I were gay?_"

Immediately, Brian felt fear freeze over his body and turn his veins icy cold. His heart palpateted strenuously in his chest. He could feel his palms grow clammy the longer he thought about it.

"No. I wouldn't be mad." He whispered. "You're my boy, I wouldn't be angry at you for being who you are." Brian paused again. "Are you gay?"

"_I… I don't know_."

Brian didn't want to think about the amount of hatred that would be directed at his boys if they admitted they were questioning their sexualities. Or at least perhaps two of his boys...

John had already told Brian about him kissing Paul. And Brian always speculated if the rhythm guitarist was a homosexual, or perhaps bisexual, especially after their short-lived affair in Spain.

"Paul... Everything's going to be alright, okay? I'm here for you. You're not a bad person because of this: you're a good man, a normal, healthy, wonderful, talented man." Brian wished he could reach through the telephone and hug his boy. The sound of his gentle breathing and his wobbly voice made the manager's heart shatter in two.

"_Okay_." The bassist breathed on the other end, sounding as if he was about to break down into tears. "_Thank you, Brian, I'll talk to you soon._"

"Goodnight, Paul. Tell the others that I'm thinking about them."

The other line went dead.

Brian, for a moment that seemed to be endless, stared into nothing for the longest time. He silently picked his elbows off the counter and walked to the bathroom, holding back tears.

… … …

Paul put down the phone quietly. He sat down on the carpet without thinking and tried to empty his mind of the swimming thoughts that attacked his brain like a tsunami.

After staring into black space for however long, he heard John's soft footsteps pad over to him and the older man sat in front of him cautiously.

A warm hand was pressed to the bassist's stony cheek. The fingers caressed his raven locks tenderly. Paul couldn't tear his eyes away from the eternal void of hopelessness that leered in his mind's eye. John used another hand to press against Paul's chest through his shirt and run the pads of his digits against the bassist's pecs.

"You okay?" he asked quietly. Paul didn't bother responding.

John had moved his face closer to Paul's and tentatively planted a kiss on the younger man's bottom lip. He started to kiss Paul on his neck and peeled back Paul's loose shirt to kiss his collarbone. The older man had sat himself on Paul's lap, almost straddling him. He kept himself quiet and busy by moving his hand up and down Paul's crotch through his jeans and, with the other, unbuttoning the dark-haired man's shirt.

Paul stared and stared until he felt himself drift away into another level of existence. Every now and again, he would be brought back by the touch of John's lips on his neck, but he was buried too deep in his own sorrow to acknowledge the seductive gesture.

He wanted a drink again. He really fucking wanted a drink. He needed a drink.

At this point, John had started to rock himself on Paul's hips methodically. The bassist realised that John really wasn't in the proper frame of mind to want sex. Only a few moments earlier, he was acting like a child: it wasn't right. Paul felt the nostalgic feeling of disgust latch onto his being and he wanted nothing more than to stare into the bottom of a whisky bottle.

The waves of disgust hit him harder and harder the more John advanced on him. Despite his erection, Paul felt sick to his stomach every time John touched him.

Paul was disgusting. He didn't deserve John's touch. As always, Paul took advantage of his friend and it made him nearly gag. He wasn't supposed to enjoy this.

John was whimpering gently in Paul's ear each time he rocked his pelvis against Paul's. The friction was almost euphoric to both men, but the bassist wanted to throw up. The rhythm guitarist had draped his arms across Paul's shoulders and continued kissing him as he rubbed his hips into Paul's pelvis.

Paul felt a little bit of pre-cum soil his underwear and he shuddered. His body shouldn't have been enjoying this... It should have been rejecting it.

"John," he whispered, "please stop."

The older man breathed heavily into Paul's ear and buried his head into the bassist's neck as he rocked himself faster.

"Please…"

"Say my name Paul," John's fingers were digging into Paul's shoulders.

"No, John-"

"Oh," the older man shuddered with husk, "Paul, _I love you_-"

"NO!" Paul yelled, shoving John off him with one push, his muscles tense and rippling with panic. "No! You don't love me! Fuck off, John!"

The rhythm guitarist stared up at the bassist, now pacing erratically around the room, with horror in his eyes. "Wha-"

"I'm not gay! I'm not a queer, like you or Brian!"

"Paul, calm down-"

"No!" The bassist barked, "I'm not a queenie, John. Don't say you love me, when you don't."

John's fearful eyes watered with sorrow. "I was just tryin' to cheer you up..." he said quietly, melting into a child before Paul's very eyes.

The younger man took a step towards his bandmate and watched him flinch quickly.

"Don't hit me, Paul, please don't hit me, I won't do it again, I promise." John quivered.

Paul didn't move. There was a tense silence for a moment. "I wasn't gonna hit you, John." He whispered.

John's face was buried behind his hands in fear. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, Paul... _Please_."

The bassist crouched slowly onto the carpet and crawled towards the cowering rhythm guitarist with bated breath.

He sat and waited, silently, until the older man pulled away his palms from his face and looked at Paul with two dark, shiny eyes.

Paul's tone was softer than silk. "I'm not gonna hurt you, Johnny." His hazel orbs were sad and hollow and empty of anything other than pain. "I'm not gonna hurt you."

For a while, John sat on his knees and looked at Paul with tormented confusion. "Is it wrong to love you?"

"Do I _deserve_ love, John? That's the real question."

"I think you do,"

"Do _they_?"

"Who?"

"Everyone else."

"Who gives a shit." John whispered softly.

Paul sighed heavily into his fingers. "I don't even know what to do anymore. Everyone says I'm hurting you rather than helping you. I don't think I'm good for you, John, not like this."

"No one's seen me like you have, Paul." The older man said. His eyes were wide and his mouth was a small line of sobriety. "You make me feel whole again."

Paul paused. "I'm sorry I shouted at you."

"It's okay, I'm sorry I started kissing you." Said John.

Paul crawled closer towards John on his hands and knees, mop-top shaking as he shuffled. "No, no, I… I like it when you kiss me. I was just in a bad place."

"I have a bad place too. When I kiss you, I forget all about it." John rested his forehead on Paul's and closed his eyes.

Paul hesitantly placed a kiss on John's thin lips. He pulled away when the older man started to kiss back. "Wait here for a minute, okay?" The bassist got up and scurried off upstairs, his footsteps dancing up over John's head from the floorboards above. After a minute or two of rumbling, the footsteps padded down the stairs again and Paul emerged from the dimly lit hallway. Under his arm, he carried some records.

John had to smile. "What's all this then?"

"Just listen," Paul hurriedly put the record on the turntable and put the needle onto the grooves of the record.

A harmonica electrified through the air. John stared at Paul in wonderment as the younger man smiled and walked over to him.

"_There… is a place,_

_Where I can go,_

_When I feel low,_

_When I feel blue._"

John and Paul's voices worked seamlessly with each other, their harmonies like liquid gold. The bassist stood over John and offered him his hand.

"What are we doin'?" The rhythm guitarist said, after taking Paul's palm in his. The two men were stood closely together in the middle of the living room.

Paul smiled. "Dance with me,"

"_And it's my mind,_

_And there's no time,_

_When I'm alone._"

The bassist had John's large hands in his, as the two of them bopped and jived around the living room merrily.

"_I... think of you,_

_The things you do,_

_Go round my head,_

_The things you said._"

The two musicians moved in the rhythm to their own tune, their previous anxieties melting away like frost in the spring.

"_Like I love,_

_Only you_."

Paul was delighted when John started giggling as the two danced around the room with giddiness. The bassist twirled John around using his arm and caught him in his chest and they chortled with amusement, both slightly out of breath from their exercise.

"_In my mind, there's no sorrow,_

_Don't you know that it's so._

_They'll be no sad tomorrow,_

_Don't you know that it's so._"

The bassist held the rhythm guitarist close to him. The music played behind them, but they seemed incapable of noticing anything else but each other.

Paul leaned in, slowly, breath hitched and voice caught, heart fluttering, and embraced John's lips passionately. He felt the world around them melt away, even managing to block out the sound of jangling keys and the front door opening.

"_There's a place,_

_There's a place,_

_There's a place._"

… … …

**(Hello, lovely people!**

**I'm so incredibly sorry for it being so long since my last update, but there has been a lot of things going on in my life, so it's hard to push these chapters out quickly. I like to make them as good as they can be before I publish them, and I hope this chapter was good for you!**

**I tried to make it nice and long. Hopefully the next update after this won't take as much time to publish, but there aren't any promises that it'll be any quicker. After all, good things come to those who wait, haha!**

**Anyway, thank you ever so much for reading this installment, and I love hearing your feedback so don't be shy! Leave us a comment, will you? I love you guys so much, so thank you once again.**

**Also... Layla, I know you don't like the rather 'wobbly' song for the last part, but I had to put it in... It's perfect for this chapter! I don't care anyway, you soggy lampshade. ^-^**

**Okay, enough of me. TTFN!**

**Love, omgringo.)**


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